Wayward Slytherins
by Amanamarthiel
Summary: AU. When Harry Potter escapes imprisonment at Malfoy Manor, Narcissa knows that she needs to send Draco away to protect his life. Using a long forgotten Portkey, Draco is sent into the reluctant protection of another. Caught between the Light and the Dark, he begins to question his beliefs, cultivating new relationships, and learning more about his housemates than he ever expected.
1. Disillusions

**Summary**

 **Seventh year. AU from December of DH.**  
 **Draco Malfoy has grown despondent, finding that life as a Death Eater is not as glorious as he'd once imagined. His family's reputation is tarnished, the Dark Lord has taken control of their home, and Draco, try as he might, cannot live up to the expectations set for him.**

 **When Harry Potter escapes imprisonment at Malfoy Manor, Narcissa knows that she needs to send Draco away in order to protect her son's life. With the help of a long forgotten Portkey, Draco is sent into the protection of another. As Draco lingers in a strange limbo between the Light and the Dark, events lead him to question his beliefs, cultivate relationships that he never imagined, and learn more about his housemates than he ever expected. Meanwhile, as the final battle draws ever closer, he finds himself wondering if there could ever be a place for him in a certain dark haired Gryffindor's future.**

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Important: Although this story is based on Draco's perspective, please note the following, which will help to explain the background to my version and why the plot diverges:

When Harry, Ron and Hermione visit Xenophilius Lovegood on December 28, the events are slightly altered. Xenophilius maintains his lie that Luna is down at the steam looking for Freshwater Plimpies. While the trio are waiting, Harry notices the art on Luna's ceiling (in DH, he notices this much later, while Xenophilius is preparing diner). Suspicious of the dust coating their friend's room, they force Xenophilius to explain, and he admits the truth to them. In exchange for information regarding the Deathly Hallows, as well as their own wish to rescue their friend, the trio head to Malfoy Manor on December 29, but are apprehended by Fenrir Greyback, Scabior and the other snatchers. For this reason, Dean and Griphook do not feature in this story (as in DH, everyone was captured during the Easter holidays).

Relationship Differences: No prior or current romantic relationship between Tonks and Remus. Past Sirius/Remus (unbeknownst to other characters). Past romantic relationship between Harry and Ginny.

Finally: Some smutty lemony stuff will feature early on (or, early _ish_... Chapter 8!). More will occur, but not until much later in the story. I've got a sequel planned, and there will be a lot more action there.

Check the notes preceding each chapter for any necessary warnings re: sexual content/graphic violence/torture/etc. At the moment, anything could happen here; I'm working it out as I go!

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Thank you for reading!

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Chapter One: Disillusions

The vast balcony on the third floor had once been a favourite place for the family to entertain guests. It boasted a magnificent panoramic views of the manor grounds, offering a glimpse into lovingly manicured gardens, tranquil fountains and bountiful orchards. However, the new guests had little interest in admiring the scenery, and that was one of the reasons – among others – that the upkeep had been abandoned in recent months.

Draco had developed a tendency to come and sit on the balcony when he couldn't sleep, which was quite often these days. He hadn't come here much before the war, especially not on his own. The fact that he'd taken the view too much for granted, that he hadn't come here quite enough over the years filled him with a deep regret, for now it was spoiled. But in some ways, perhaps it was good that he hadn't been known to frequent the balcony – perhaps that was why no one had come across him yet. Sitting outside, his back to the doors which were firmly closed behind him, he could almost pretend that the life on the other side of them didn't exist. Even if the land below him represented everything that they had lost, he could still escape in it, and that was good.

Draco shivered, feeling the early morning frost start to bite into him as he noticed that the Warming Charm he had cast over himself was beginning to fade. Wordlessly, he lifted his wand and recast it, letting himself be cradled by the gentle heat of his magic once more. He felt cold all the time now, and had done for months, even before winter had arrived. Due to this, he had quickly perfected the ability to cast the charm non-verbally. Perhaps he used the charm a little more frequently than was needed, but it was something simple that he could take comfort in. Something that could still feel good when so little did these days.

He cast his eye over the scenery below once more. Twigs poked pathetically from the dry and ruined earth of the flowerbeds, devoid of any life. Stagnant, murky water festered in fountains which sat silent and still, surrounded by browned leaves and other debris that gently rolled over the walkways in the slight breeze. The grass was patchy, thirsty, grey. The only signs of life were in the trees, but just barely. A few green leaves remained, the last reminder of a dying promise. Even though it was winter now, the grounds had never looked this way before. Their magic had seen to that.

Tears gathered in his eyes, not for the first time and not for the last. Once, he'd taken such joy in these views, proudly showing newcomers the beauty of the estate, of his home. Once, his parents had been a constant presence in the gardens, developing a mutual passion for Herbology and landscaping after his grandfather's death, slowly transforming the grounds into something of their own. His first kiss had occurred down there, and the shrubs and trees had witnessed other secrets over the course of his adolescence. Even though he was still underage, even though he was only an heir rather than the lord of the manor, his magic was tied into the place, as was the magic of all of the Malfoys that had lived there before him. But over the last months, that magic had been drawn away, siphoned and redirected for the family's preservation. For how could they refuse the wishes of the Dark Lord, especially when the evidence of their magic lay there for all to see?

It had happened slowly at first, hardly recognisable, but then one day the impact had been obvious, deadening. When he had returned home for a weekend visit one month into the school term, when he had first glimpsed the changed state of the grounds and the dying land had finally become apparent to him, Draco hadn't known if the pain inside him was real or imagined, but he had felt it. Now, it was December, and things were so much worse. The land could give no more, it could only linger silently. _Where had the peacocks gone?_ he wondered, not for the first time.

Draco's presence at the manor this time had been commanded, not by his parents, but by his aunt. He'd been summoned a week before the beginning of Christmas break, and had been here for four tense, sleep deprived days. His attendance at Hogwarts over the year had been intermittent, punctured by regular summoning from the Dark Lord, Bellatrix, and various others. Often, he'd be called away to receive extra training, or to be tested more rigorously by members of the Dark Lord's Inner Circle. He'd taken part in various missions, though he normally received minor, secondary tasks, such as stunning and binding Muggles, and searching the properties that they lay claim to for specific dark artefacts. Sometimes, they just called him so that he could be tortured, so that he could be reminded exactly where his allegiances lay, and exactly who it was that decided whether he deserved to live or to die. Eventually, he would be sent back, battered and trembling, through the Floo into Severus's office, where his godfather would be awaiting his return. His father never summoned him, no, never his father, for he was still being punished for his failings two years earlier. His father's status had fallen, perhaps even below his own. He no longer had the right to exert any kind of influence over what happened to his son, and was regularly reminded of this when forced to stand silent and simply watch as Draco was tormented. While Draco shared his name, shared his blood, he had been Marked, and this made him, first and foremost, the Dark Lord's. Lucius was rarely permitted to even speak to his son, and when Draco saw him, he would keep his eyes downcast unless ordered otherwise, his entire being resonating with shame and fear. The stint in Azkaban had caused irreparable damage to the man, but it was this latest imprisonment which had broken him. Sometimes when they stood there, so close together, Draco longed to reach for his father, to whisper something, anything. Other times, he just wanted to reach over and shake some life into the man. Both actions were too much of a risk of course. They would both be punished. And Draco also knew that the man he so desperately wanted to reappear wasn't there anymore.

Narcissa had taken on the role that Lucius could not. Once seen simply as a perfect pure-blood wife, she'd had to adapt to a situation where her husband had crumbled, where he was no longer imposing, and no longer had influence over anyone. It was up to Narcissa to step up and protect her family and the Malfoy legacy as best she could. The new version of his mother spoke with a cold, ruthless confidence, addressing her older sister more obstinately than others would ever risk when dealing with such an unstable woman. Sometimes, however, Draco thought that he could see small hints of the woman that she used to be. She never touched him, no, they could never touch, but sometimes she would cast a soft glance or a tiny hint of a smile in his direction. To any other onlooker, Narcissa would seem to be coping well enough with their situation, but as she was his mother, Draco knew better. While she was fiercely determined to maintain as impeccable an appearance as ever, Draco could see the frays starting to appear. Already petite, she'd lost weight in recent months, rendering her face sharp and gaunt. Her hair had lost much of its lustre, the skin under her eyes bruised from little sleep, and wrinkles hinted in places they'd never been before. He didn't question why she bothered to make the effort to present herself well. He knew already that this was all that she could do to remind herself that she was not yet broken, that she was determined to ensure that their family would claw their way back up from the dregs of the Dark Lord's ranks. And perhaps, it was an unspoken sign to her husband that it was not yet time to give up. Draco didn't know if Lucius had received that message, because the man was well and truly defeated already.

The sun was beginning to crawl over the horizon now, taunting him with the prospect of a world that couldn't be, a world of light and warmth and life. Draco let out a shuddering sigh of resignation and pushed himself to his feet, cracking the muscles in his aching back. He'd had no sleep again, but he'd allow himself a few drops of Pepper-Up Potion to rouse him. His supply had grown low after going with limited sleep for so long, but it was all that he could do for himself. It was time to return to his quarters and prepare for the day.

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The manor was quieter than normal because the Dark Lord was away, and most of his inner circle was absent too. They were on a mission presumably, but Draco was not permitted to know the details. Apart from his parents, only Bellatrix and Wormtail lingered, and if he ignored them, sometimes Draco could nearly imagine that things were almost as they once were. Almost. Lucius had practically taken up permanent occupancy in the drawing room, sitting in an armchair by the fire and staring blankly down at his clasped hands. Occasionally, he would scratch absentmindedly at his Dark Mark with ragged nails, digging into the skin as if he believed he could tear it away. Sometimes a mug of firewhisky would be positioned beside him, and although he'd take drunken gulps from time to time, he maintained his silence. When he had no other duties to perform, Draco would join his father and sit a distance away, various books from the library cradled in his lap, watching the man from the corner of his eye. Lucius never turned toward him.

Narcissa tried to stay away from the man that resembled her husband but was anything but, disappearing for hours at a time and occupying herself with whatever she could. When he was not engaged in menial tasks or roaming the grounds in his rat form, Wormtail hovered, reeking of both desperation and an infuriating smugness for being favoured over Lucius. And Bellatrix explored at her own leisure, taking pleasure in searching out secrets, knowing that Lucius no longer had the power to prevent this and that Draco was too afraid to, until Narcissa would finally find her, ordering in a firm, clear voice for her sister to get out.

Draco had returned home for training purposes this time, and he spent long, terrifying portions of the day with his Aunt Bellatrix as she drilled new, chilling spells into him and duelled with him in the courtyard. The woman had been a stranger to him until two years earlier, as she'd been in Azkaban for most of his life. There was no familial bond between them even now; she did not see him as a nephew, and, beyond acknowledging the title, she wasn't an aunt to him either. Although she referred to Narcissa as her sister readily enough, Draco was simply a tool that needed to be sharpened and refined so that it he could be of sufficient use to the Dark Lord. Bellatrix was a powerful witch but not a natural teacher, and was quick to exact her anger when mistakes were made. Draco was lucky to be both a fast learner and an accomplished wizard, otherwise he would have suffered greater punishment at her hands. Of course, he never managed to emerge from their sessions entirely unscathed; some part of him always ended up bruised, scraped or bleeding.

It was strange to remember now that there had been a time in his life where he had held a desperate wish to become a Death Eater. He had been a naïve fool back then. He had idolised his father, worshipped him, to the extent that he'd been blind to the man's flaws. To him, Lucius Malfoy had always been the epitome of success – strong, intelligent, charismatic, ambitious, feared and respected by friends and foe alike. He had not been raised with the knowledge of his father's background and his role during the First Wizarding War, but when he had learned that the most infamous wizard in modern history considered his father among his most trusted, Draco had yearned to follow him. When his father was captured and imprisoned in Azkaban, Draco had felt so powerless and distraught. So when the Dark Lord's gaze had turned to him, Draco had stepped forward readily to accept his fate, eager to redeem his father's name and also win the man's respect in the process.

The realities of being a Death Eater had set in quickly, however. Many would consider it a privilege to be in his position - to be invited into the Dark Lord's inner circle, and as an underage wizard too - but Draco soon grew despondent. He had received strict and meticulous instruction from his father from an early age, allowing him to be groomed into the perfect Malfoy. However, some vital part of him seemed to be missing, because he seemed incapable of being the perfect Death Eater. He could be cold, he could be detached, he could be cruel. He knew what his place was in the wizarding world, and his ideals aligned with the Dark Lord's cause. But they had given him a mission that he couldn't fulfil, one that Severus had had to carry out for him in the end. Eventually he had come to suspect that the Dark Lord had known all along that he would fail, that this was simply another way to punish Lucius and his family.

During the months that followed after Dumbledore's death he had spent more time among the members of the Dark Lord's inner circle, and had determined that his father had been a fool to swear fealty to the lunatic. Although he agreed with the Dark Lord's sentiments regarding blood purity, he hardly felt the need to support this man's pursuance of his own immortality. At times, Draco believed that it took unwarranted precedence over what should have been the main cause – restructuring and cleansing the wizarding world. Indeed, Draco had been raised within a pure-blood family where he had learned that his blood status was superior to those of mixed or Muggle-based blood. He had been born into a family of the 'sacred twenty-eight' – those remaining pure-blood families – and a particularly noble one at that, and that was something that placed him on a higher platform to other magical folk. He believed that the use of magic should be restricted to those who actually deserved to harness it – those of pure magical heritage – and that the presence and continued integration of Mudbloods into society unfavourably diluted the wizarding population. However, he wasn't entirely certain about the methods that were employed. Perhaps he was weak, but he struggled to support the concept of continuously torturing and killing Mudbloods and their sympathisers, and was more revolted by the idea of raping and enslaving them than anything else. He would find himself wondering - just how far was the Dark Lord willing to go to win this war? And what would come next, once Harry Potter was dead and all of his scum eradicated? Would there really be an ending, a point where the Dark Lord would finally be finished, satisfied? After months and months of the same questions swirling around in his brain, a surprising realisation had surfaced in Draco, arising more and more often despite his attempts to push it back: he wasn't sure that he actually wanted the Dark Lord to win.

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He made the discovery three days before Christmas.

Lucius was indisposed that morning, so Draco had been sent down the stairs and into the cellar to check on the prisoners. The house elves were responsible for replenishing the captives' food and water and controlling the heating in the room, but they needed to be 'checked on' – or more precisely, intimidated – from time to time. With a manic grin playing across her haunted features, Bellatrix had suggested that he go downstairs and 'play' with the prisoners, but not so roughly that he accidentally killed one of them – it would not be wise to displease the Dark Lord, after all. He'd never had much to do with the prisoners after they were caught, though sometimes he had followed the others down the stairs and watched as they were tormented with a sickening fascination, unable to tear his eyes away. Draco had returned Bellatrix's veiled command with a nod, his face bearing no expression, before descending into the cellar that served as a dungeon. Inside, his heart was pounding as he wondered what he could possibly do to these people that could satisfy his aunt without adding to the plethora of horrors that were steadily accumulating and feeding his nightmares.

He made his way down the stairs slowly, quietly. For some reason, he didn't want to make a sound, didn't want to hear the echo of his own footfall as he made his descent. He wondered who these people would be, whether they'd be Muggles, parents of students, members of the Order, or ministry officials. He wondered if they would know him, but of course they would – apart from his hair, which was shorter, he closely resembled his father. His boots made contact with the floor and he stood there a moment, flexing his toes and tensing the fingers that wrapped around his wand, still in his pocket, feeling a small comfort from the smooth hawthorn wood. He let out the breath that he had been holding, bitterly realising the fact that he was trying to comfort _himself_ about the fact that he was expected to torture some prisoners. But then again, he'd always been considered self-absorbed, hadn't he? He needed to move forward, he needed to do this. Eventually, his Death Eater responsibilities would become more demanding, and he would need to be strong if he wanted to stay alive. If he couldn't do this, then how would he succeed with others' eyes on him?

He gripped his wand tighter, seeking that comfort once more, and stepped forward. He couldn't see the prisoners from where he stood, so he would need to move beyond the stairs; the room was L shaped and he guessed that they were against the wall around the bend, as far from the entrance as they could possibly get. He passed the poor excuse for a latrine and wrinkled his nose, reminding himself absently to call for a house elf to clean it when he'd returned upstairs.

"I hear you." A voice rasped through the gloom, startling him. He didn't recognise the voice. It sounded as if it belonged to an old man, but he couldn't be entirely certain.

Draco swallowed and moved forward, feeling stupid for being so quiet, so cautious, for feeling _self-conscious_ even though these people were _their_ prisoners. Theirs? Well, even if he was a pathetic excuse for a Death Eater, he was still one of them.

He rounded the corner, pausing at the junction to eye the two bodies that were positioned against the wall. The old man who had spoken was sitting, leaning over a smaller shape that was curled by his feet. The old man pressed a gentle hand to the back of the other figure, murmuring to them as he tried to rouse them. The person that was lying down inhaled sharply as they woke, pushing themselves slowly upward. The old man lifted his head, staring up at Draco.

"Mr Malfoy. I was wondering when you would be visiting."

Draco stared back at the old man and stepped closer, taking in the lank grey hair and filthy clothing, trying to imagine him without the grime as he attempted to place him. He'd met him before, long ago, he was sure of it. His finger absentmindedly stroked his wand as he continued to think, and that motion helped to stir the memory.

"Garrick Ollivander." He murmured as he realised, finally.

The other occupant was revealed to be a girl of a similar age to him, her long white blonde hair matted, and dirt smudged on her cheeks. Like Ollivander, she was filthy, but apart from a few scrapes here and there, she seemed relatively unharmed. Her large silver eyes blinked up at him sleepily.

"Lovegood." She was one of Potter's, a Ravenclaw student in the year below them. He'd seen her at Hogwarts this year, but he wasn't sure when. It could have been months ago.

"Hello Draco," she said softly, "You don't look so good."

He snorted lightly. Obviously the girl hadn't looked in the mirror lately.

"They've sent him down to remind us who is in charge here, Luna." Ollivander commented, not taking his eyes away from Draco. It felt as if those ghostly pale eyes were boring into him, seeing everything, knowing all of his truths.

"Ah," Luna cocked her head to the side, regarding him solemnly, "Have you done this before, Draco?"

"That's none of your business!" he snapped, defensive.

Perhaps he hadn't been sent alone to torment prisoners before, but the old man didn't need to know it, didn't know that Bellatrix likely expected his attempts to be paltry at best. Even if he had let the other Death Eaters into the school last year, Severus had needed to finish the job, had needed to kill Dumbledore for him.

Bellatrix suspected that he was soft, he was sure, and that was dangerous. She could exploit that. He needed to make sure she didn't.

"He has to do it," Ollivander told her softly, "He knows they'll kill him if he doesn't."

"I've chosen my fate, old man," Draco told him, gritting his teeth, "These choices are my own."

Ollivander gave a short nod then simply gazed back at him expressionlessly. Draco knew the man was disbelieving, but neither commented on this.

Draco had hurt people before, of course he had. He hadn't subjected anyone to an Unforgivable under these kind of circumstances though. There had been that attempt to Crucio Potter in the bathrooms last year, where he'd been practically shredded apart as a result. He had also had ample practice during Amycus Carrow's Dark Arts classes, and during Prefect duty when he'd helped to monitor detention sessions. And then, there had been a few times, at the command of the Dark Lord. But this was different. This was being done in cold blood, with no one standing nearby to make sure he got the job done, but with the threat of repercussions for failure lingering nonetheless. That time in the bathrooms, he had wanted to destroy Potter, and hatred made it easier to cast the curse. He barely knew these two.

"Draco," Luna murmured, "I haven't seen you at school; did you leave for Christmas break early?"

It was strange that she'd noticed his absence at school, but perhaps she was a spy for Potter. "Something like that."

"Ah."

"You'll have to start soon," the old man spoke up, "They'll be checking on you, and if you haven't done enough to please them, you'll be punished along with us. I'd prefer it if that wretched woman stayed away."

"Stop it!" Draco hissed at him, "I am in charge here, not you!"

"You have to do it."

"I know, I-"

"A cutting curse, perhaps," Luna mused, "I think I could handle that."

Draco swung to stare at her, open mouthed. The Ravenclaw blinked up at him, her expression impassive.

"What did you say?" he asked.

"A cutting curse?" she repeated, ignoring his stunned expression, "I think I could handle that, just... not on my face, if it's all the same."

Draco could hardly believe what he was hearing. Luna Lovegood was suggesting her preferred method of torture to him, suggesting curses for him to use on _her_. And she sounded so neutral, so detached from the situation, as if she was recommending a particular swatch of fabric or something equally banal.

Ollivander sighed. "Mr Malfoy," he said gently, "It's all too obvious that you're not cut out for this task. I really hope that you manage to put on a better mask when the other Death Eaters are near. This type of hesitation will get you killed."

"Of course I'm cut out for this," Draco snarled, "I was _chosen_ , by the Dark Lord himself. How dare you speak to me with such disrespect?"

The man tilted his chin, "Because you don't deserve it, Mr Malfoy."

"You don't know me at all! _Incarcerous_!" and ropes shot around the old man, binding him.

Not giving himself any more time to hesitate, he let his rage fuel him. He stepped backwards, aiming his wand at Luna, whose eyes had widened slightly at his sudden movements, " _Diffindo_!"

Three times she was slashed – the first on her shoulder, the second on her upper arm and the third across her stomach, tearing through the fabric of her dusty pink jumper. She let out a small yelp and flinched each time she was cut, then sat there gasping softly, her head lowered as she pressed her arms against her middle. Draco inhaled sharply, his eyes widened in horror.

"And what shall you do to me, boy?" Ollivander's cold voice interrupted his thoughts, "I think you know what you need to do, but I don't know if you've got the stomach for it!"

Draco swung towards him, furious, a small part of him wondering why this was what the old man wanted him to do, but persisting all the same, because he had to, damn it. " _Finite Incantatem_ ," the ropes binding the man disappeared, allowing his body to relax slightly; then, " _Crucio_!"

Luna lifted her head at the words, crying out and scurrying to the side as Ollivander fell to the ground, his screams ringing hoarsely through the cellar as he writhed and thrashed about on the floor. Draco watched, panting as he counted in his head, and when he reached a certain number he released the man, watching as he collapsed and then lay there, trembling. In the process, Ollivander appeared to have bitten through his lip, and blood dripped down from his mouth, staining the collar of his shirt. Draco crashed to his knees, burying his face in his hands as reality struck him and the anger fell away. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, could hear the panicked sound of Luna's voice but couldn't make out her words.

He'd crucioed Garrick Ollivander with the very wand that he had made and then sold to him six years before. The man was a genius, his family steeped in history, world renowned. And this instrument, this gift that he had brought into the world, that he had _created_ for a wizard such as Draco to wield, this instrument had betrayed him. And perhaps, it would need to do so again.

"Pliant." A voice murmured weakly.

Draco raised his head slowly at sound of the word, fixing his eyes upon Ollivander, who gazed up at the ceiling, his head cradled in Luna's lap. The Ravenclaw bent over him as she stroked his hair softly, soothingly.

"Ten inches, hawthorn wood, unicorn hair core. Reasonably pliant..." The old man's voice faded to a whisper now as his eyes closed.

Draco took a deep, shuddering breath. Was he-

"He's sleeping now." Luna said gently, interrupting his thoughts.

"I didn't-"

"I know," the girl said softly, saving him from having to say it, "You needed to. He knew that, so he goaded you to make you angry, so it would be easier for you. He's normally a very mild mannered man…"

"A fool."

"Perhaps." Luna commented thoughtfully, fixing him with those dreamy silver eyes of hers. His eyes wandered to the torn fabric of her jumper and the blood that had oozed from the cuts. "I forgive you, Draco."

" _What_?" he tore his eyes away from her injuries, staring at her.

"I forgive you." The girl repeated, her voice calm and steady.

He couldn't believe these two. Weren't they both Ravenclaws? Yet Ollivander had taunted and pushed him, something that many would consider foolish but some would also see as brave. Despite what the man had implied - that torture at Draco's hand was much preferable to that of Bellatrix - he could see little reason for the old wandmaker to do such a thing. And Luna's calm acceptance of her fate... both of their actions had seemed positively Gryffindor. First they'd allowed him – encouraged him, even – to injure them, and now Luna was telling him that he was _forgiven_?

Draco rose to his feet, feeling shame and other emotions that he didn't want to think about right now. He pointed his wand at them one last time. " _Tergeo_ ," He murmured, and watched as the blood cleared from both of their wounds. He fumbled in the pocket of his blazer jacket, emerging with a small bag of dittany, which he tossed at Luna, landing by her feet, "In case you need it."

And then he turned his back on them, making his way out of the cellar as quickly as he could. He hoped that he had done enough to satisfy Bellatrix, because he wasn't sure that he could handle any more, and he wasn't going to stay to find out. He made his way back up to the third floor, and it wasn't until he had reached the balcony and cast a silencing spell around him that he allowed the tears to fall.

.

It was the fourth day after Christmas when the course of Draco's life irrevocably changed.


	2. Captivis

Author's Note:

Chapters 2 and 3 detail the events that occur at Malfoy Manor. Although the events here occur in December rather than April, some of the character dialogue is pulled from the original story, and other parts are paraphrased.

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Chapter Two: Captivis

Christmases at Malfoy Manor were normally memorable affairs, the grounds decorated extravagantly and the house filled with important guests. This year, the day had passed by unceremoniously, leaving Draco in a state of gloom as he had tried not to think about how things had been in the years before.

The 29th of December started the same as the days before it. The Malfoys, Bellatrix and Wormtail gathered in the dining room for the usual strained breakfast. Lucius stared blankly at the tablecloth as he slurped his black coffee, his plate empty as he ignored the assortment of pastries and fruit that the house elves had piled on the table. Wormtail read the relevant articles of the Daily Prophet aloud with fervour through nibbles of pastry. Bellatrix, who had claimed Lucius's place at the head of the table upon her arrival, and who was in a surprisingly good mood that morning, made a point of listening to Wormtail for once, cackling through a mouthful of omelette and hurrying him along impatiently when particular parts bored her. Narcissa sat straight-backed in her chair, poised as always, her face a mask as she slowly stirred her tea and took small sips. She didn't eat, but that wasn't anything unusual – the woman had the appetite of a bird nowadays. Draco picked mournfully at his croissant and wished that he was elsewhere.

Bellatrix Lestrange was dangerous. When she was in a bad mood, she was particularly dangerous. When she was in a good mood, she was even worse. So, Draco was wary when he followed the woman as she marched out to the courtyard that morning, but schooled his features so that he appeared calm and composed. That morning, they practiced duelling, with Bellatrix attempting to use Legilimency to throw him off track. This proved to be a challenge for Draco, who considered himself reasonably adept at Occlumency. Just as he'd been trained to, Draco ensured that his Occlumency shields were always up nowadays – they needed to be, particularly now that he was starting to have doubts about the Dark Lord's motives. If these thoughts were revealed, he would be in serious trouble.

The difficulty of duelling and defending Bellatrix's attempts to Legilimize him were evident at once. He struggled to efficiently split his magic between keeping his shields intact, defending against Bellatrix's advances, and casting his own attacks. His blocking abilities were significantly weakened when he had to direct a greater portion of his magical energy to maintaining his shields – which was what he needed to do when Bellatrix attempted to get into his head – and he could hardly prioritise attacking her at all. The woman had much more experience than he, and refused to go easy on him, hitting him with curses that he struggled to block and often had to simply dodge to avoid. Yes, he was no nephew of hers, just a weapon indeed.

By midday, the lessons were finally over, and Draco returned, limping and bruised, to his own quarters, where he summoned a house elf to prepare him a bath and performed the necessary healing spells to fix his more major injuries. He was too exhausted to worry about the other ones. He sank himself into the lemongrass perfumed water, allowing it to lap at his aching muscles. He closed his eyes and must have fallen asleep there, because the next time they opened, the sun was setting.

Realising he hadn't eaten since breakfast, he forced himself to have a light supper, summoning a house elf to his room once again. Like his mother, he didn't have much of an appetite these days, but he knew that it was important to remember to eat. The weaker his body, the harder he would find it to counter Bellatrix's spells, and the more he would be punished. He needed to be strong, needed to survive.

After swallowing down as much of the food that he could, he made his way to the drawing room and found his father there, sitting in his usual chair before the fire. Draco eyed him with disappointment, noting that the man still hadn't shaved, then sank into his own chair, grabbing a tome from the stack that was piled beside him. At the moment, he was studying healing magic, something that had only been skimmed over in his classes at Hogwarts. With battles inevitably looming, becoming confident with assessing and counteracting damage to his person was necessary. Some of the other books in the pile had been assigned by various members of the inner circle for him to read in order to be of further value as a Death Eater. However, most of them, like this one, had been self-selected. Although he wasn't known to be a book-worm like Granger was, he had always been a prolific reader, his interests wide-ranging. Perhaps in another life, he'd have been a Ravenclaw.

He'd been immersed in the tome for about an hour when he heard the sound of his mother's voice. It was cold and imperious, emphasising her authority. Curious, he snapped the book closed and placed it back on the pile, listening intently. He knew that Bellatrix had returned to her own quarters and that Wormtail was in the library, both of which lay in the opposite direction to the manor's entrance, where his mother seemed to be. That meant that there were newcomers.

Lucius had also heard Narcissa, and it was almost as if he knew what was coming, for his eyes suddenly grew sharp and clear and his normally slackened jaw tightened. He stood smoothly, expectantly, his spine straight and his eyes focussing straight ahead for once rather than on the ground. He was still an unshaven mess, but he looked more like himself in that moment than he had in months. Draco remained confused but he followed his father's lead, listening to the oncoming approach of his mother, and the arrhythmic clumping that indicated that a group was with her, moving slowly, awkwardly. More prisoners, perhaps?

He recognised Greyback as he entered then, but even if his eyes were closed he'd have known that it was the werewolf that joined them, for his offensive stench – sweat, blood, death – permeated the room immediately. Three Snatchers followed behind him, each managing a prisoner. Draco almost gaped at the newcomers, but of course, he knew better than that.

"What is this?" his father spoke then, his voice low and silky. He almost sounded like the Lucius of Draco's childhood, authoritative, terrifying.

"They say they've captured Potter," Narcissa responded coolly as she stepped to the side of the room. Her eyes flicked to her son, "Draco, come here."

He moved forward then, slowly, trying to keep his expression neutral as he stood by his mother. He'd already recognised Granger and Weasley easily enough, so he ignored them and considered the third, who had been wrenched away from the Snatcher who held him and pulled to the front of the ensemble by Greyback. Sheer logic would dictate that this one was Potter.

"Well, boy?" growled the werewolf.

The prisoner that Greyback had twisted and forced to face him seemed to have been the recipient of a nasty spell, possibly a Stinging Jinx. As a result, his face was distorted and swollen, pink and unnatural. The hair was the right colour to be Potter's, but it was much longer than he remembered. A hasty attempt to disguise his appearance, most likely.

"Well, Draco? Is it? Is it Harry Potter?" From behind him, he could hear the sheer desperation and impatience in his father's voice, and with that, the hope that his father had come back into himself fleeted. The old Lucius would never have allowed himself to sound so pathetic before his enemies.

He turned his attention back to the captive. The boy before him didn't want to meet his eyes. Draco didn't particularly want to look at him either, didn't want to be in this position at all. Why did this have to happen now, instead of during term when he would have been back at the school? Why did this have to fall on him?

"I can't – I can't be sure," he said.

His father's tone was urgent, almost bordering on panic as he pressed, "But look at him carefully, look! Move closer!"

Reluctantly, Draco moved away from his mother and closer to Greyback and his captive, then heard his father come up behind him, flinching in surprise as he grasped a hold of his hand and pulled him forward impatiently. It had been months since they'd last touched.'

"Draco, if it's him, then we can hand him over to the Dark Lord, and then everything will be forgi-"

"Mr Malfoy, I hope you aren't forgetting something." Greyback interrupted, the threat clear in his voice as his foul breath crested over them.

"Of course not," Lucius hastened, placing his hands on Draco's shoulders and adjusting him so that he stood facing the captive, "Now look at him, Draco. Look carefully. Is it him?"

Draco could still feel his father's hands clasping his shoulders, and he couldn't work out whether he relished or reviled the contact. He felt that old familiar sensation of wishing to please the man, warring with the discomfort of this sudden responsibility. Once again, he willed himself to be calm, and finally fixed his eyes on the boy properly. There was a scar on his forehead, though it wasn't the lightning bolt that Harry Potter was known for. The skin here was twisted, looking almost melted, as if something burning had been pressed into the boy's forehead and then held there. But through the swelling, he could see emerald green eyes looking back at him, and _those_ were familiar, those had fixed upon his before. So yes, despite the disfigurations, there was no doubt in Draco's mind that Greyback was not mistaken. But…

"I don't know," he said finally, and took a quick step to the side, moving out of his father's grasp.

He turned himself away, cursing the internal conflict that he was experiencing, and forced himself to return to his armchair by the fire where hopefully he could be forgotten. He knew the weight of the decision before him, knew that revealing Potter's identity could mean the end of the war and spell the Dark Lord's victory. But that wasn't exactly what he wanted, was it? If Potter died, then the future - Draco's future - was set.

Lucius continued to hover, scrutinising the boy, "What happened to him?" he demanded, glaring suspiciously at the other captors, "Did you cast a Stinging Jinx on him?"

"Looked like that when we caught him, sir," one of the Snatchers spoke up in a tone of voice that tried to convey that they were hardly that stupid.

Lucius sighed in frustration, fingering a lock of his lank blonde hair as he continued to stare at the boy that was Potter.

"We'll have to wait," Narcissa spoke up, addressing the room, "The Dark Lord cannot be summoned unless we are certain that it is Potter. You know that if we are wrong, if his time has been wasted, we shall suffer greatly."

"Yes, yes," The blonde man dragged a hand through his hair restlessly, then seemed to remember that there were other prisoners present. He stalked over to the other two, inspecting them with narrowed eyes.

"Well this one is definitely a Weasley," Lucius declared, thrusting a finger at the redhead, who paled visibly at the accusation, "Is it the one from your year, Draco?"

Draco swallowed, "It… is possible."

Lucius turned his gaze to Granger, transfixed as he tried to place her. He opened his mouth to comment, but then-

"Cissy!"

Bellatrix flounced into the room, then ground to a halt, fixing her hooded eyes on the crowd haphazardly assembled in the drawing room. Slowly, her eyes brightened in recognition, and her lips curved in a knowing grin.

"New guests," she murmured quietly, drawing her wand and stroking it between her fingers as she moved sleekly through the room. She squinted questioningly at the boy that Draco knew to be Potter.

"This one is a Weasley." Lucius said, interrupting her thoughts as he jerked his head at the redhead; his voice had become hoarse, more tentative in the presence of his sister-in-law.

However, Bellatrix paid no attention to his father's comment and glided past Weasley, coming to stand beside Lucius, who was still near Granger. His father flinched noticeably at her arrival. However, noticing the woman's attention was focused on the prisoner rather than him, he turned his head to look at the girl once more.

"It's the Mudblood, isn't it?" she said quietly, "It's Potter's little Mudblood whore."

"So the other one _must_ be Potter," Lucius whispered, and Bellatrix whirled around, advancing on Greyback and his prisoner. She peered at him once again, wide-eyed and gleeful.

"We've got Potter!" Bellatrix shrieked, turning to fix the Malfoys with those manic eyes, "The Dark Lord must be informed at once!" and with that, she dragged up the black laced sleeve of her robe, revealing her Dark Mark.

"No!" cried Lucius, lunging forward to grasp a hold of her wrist.

"You dare touch me, Malfoy?" she hissed.

" _I_ was going to summon the Dark Lord. The boy is on Malfoy grounds!"

"Malfoy grounds?" the other woman spat, "These _were_ your grounds, Lucius. You have no claim to the boy now."

"Well I'm thinking that if there's a reward, we'll be earning that, seeing as we's the ones that caught 'em, right boys?" Greyback growled as he joined the dispute, resulting in resounding shouts of agreement from the Snatchers.

"A reward?" Bellatrix's voice was low and dangerous as she whirled around to glare at Greyback and the Snatchers, her arm twisting in Lucius's grasp, "You'll have your-" she paused, eyes widening as she took in the sword that was grasped in one of the Snatchers' hands, "Where did you get that?" she snarled, ripping her hand out of Lucius's grip.

Bellatrix advanced on the cluster of Snatchers, sparks flying from her wand. Lucius, taking advantage of the woman's turned back, pulled up the sleeve of his own robes. Draco, seeing what his father was about to do, lunged forward and took a hold of the man's wrist, similar to how he had just grabbed Bellatrix's.

"Wait." Draco said softly, pressing down gently with his fingers.

"Draco, you don't understand," Lucius pleaded, his tone sending shivers down Draco's spine, because he'd only ever heard Lucius plead like that before the Dark Lord, "We _need_ this."

"Wait." Draco repeated, keeping his grip firm. Eventually, Lucius appeared to see reason, or perhaps his will had simply weakened; his shoulders slumped in defeat and he nodded. Seeing that reaction from a man who had once seemed so ambitious, so determined, and so _terrifying_ to Draco – who had just shown glimpses of that old self just mere minutes before – made it difficult for him to stay in control of his emotions. But he did. He had to, because his father could not.

After guiding Lucius to his armchair by the fire, Draco turned back to the scene. By this point, the sword was in Bellatrix's grasp, and the Snatchers lay crumpled on the floor, victims of her wrath. Only Greyback remained standing, still holding onto Potter – for surely it had to be Potter – but he was submissive and fearful now. Granger and Weasley stood by the fallen Snatchers, still bound. Their eyes were fixed warily upon Bellatrix.

"I will be gaining answers tonight!" she announced to the room, whirling to acknowledge them all as she spoke, "And when I am finished my… interrogations… the Dark Lord will be summoned here. Greyback, these traitors can be taken down to the cellar with the rest. Draco, lead them there. Oh…" she paused, turning and tracing a finger down Granger's trembling cheek, "But not you, little Mudblood. We need to get reacquainted."

"NO!" Weasley shouted, fighting against his restraints as he made an attempt to lunge towards Bellatrix, "Take me, not her! Take m-"

" _Langlock_!" Bellatrix hissed, and Weasley's protests were replaced by non-verbal sounds as his tongue became affixed to the roof of his mouth. The boy stopped wriggling and simply stood there, glowering. "Take them, Draco."

He stepped forward then, holding his wand before him, a silent threat to the three Hogwarts students. He saw Potter glance in his direction, and promptly tore his eyes away from his face, staring at a space just past his shoulder instead.

"You will follow me," he said to the two boys, his voice low and threatening, "And if you try anything, _anything_ , you will regret it."

There was no reply, but the hatred in their eyes was clear. It didn't faze Draco; the expressions were hardly unfamiliar to him. Greyback thrust the dark haired boy in his direction and the boy stumbled towards him, then Draco half-turned to lead them out the door, his wand trained on him all the while. He followed Draco down the hall towards the cellar and Weasley followed close behind, with Greyback pushing roughly along at the rear.

* * *

 _"We've got Potter," Bellatrix shrieked, "The Dark Lord must be informed at once!"_

It was at this point that Narcissa managed to slip out of the drawing room unnoticed, and made her way silently down the darkened hall. If that disfigured prisoner truly was Harry Potter, then they'd be in good standing with the Dark Lord once more; if it was someone else, however, they were all as good as dead. The risk was too great, so she needed to do this, and she needed to do it now. She reached a sealed room that she had not entered for many years. A few days ago, she had caught her older sister attempting to gain entry, and had stood there for a few minutes, a Disillusionment Charm cast over herself as she had watched the other woman alternate between hissing at the door, casting an array of spells and placing her palms against it. Bellatrix had not been successful, and eventually she had stalked away. It was unlikely that Bellatrix had known the purpose of the room or suspected it to be of any particular importance; the woman had been trying to access each and every place in the house that she discovered.

Bellatrix and Lucius had always shared a cool relationship, which had become particularly evident during the years between him courting Narcissa and the two starting their marriage. Bellatrix had grudgingly accepted that the marriage arranged between the Blacks and the Malfoys was acceptable, mostly due to the other family's blood purity and social standing than any of Lucius's own personal qualities. The woman had been hard-pressed to relinquish her control over her youngest sister, particularly after Andromeda had been disowned by the family. She loathed to accept that Lucius's role as husband took precedence over her own, even though Bellatrix and Rodolphus were already wed. Lucius, who had known the Black sisters from childhood, had always looked upon Bellatrix with distaste. Although classically beautiful in her youth, she was unrefined and her ill grace belied her breeding. He had been thankful to be paired with the middle sister, Andromeda, at the time, who was admired by many for her elegance and charismatic disposition. He had been further relieved when this arrangement had fallen through and he had been betrothed to the graceful and subdued Narcissa. He had informed Narcissa of this at length many a time, that it was fortunate that Andromeda's defects - that is, her sympathy toward Mudbloods - had been revealed before he had committed to her, before his children could be tainted with such nonsense.

Bellatrix had always viewed herself as the Dark Lord's most loyal and devoted follower, particularly over Lucius Malfoy, who had prioritised protecting his own reputation after the First Wizarding War. Now that her brother-in-law's status in the eyes of the Dark Lord had been reduced to little more than chattel, Bellatrix's more favoured position was all too clear. Lucius did not warrant her respect, and there had never been any camaraderie between them, so there was nothing to stop her from taking advantage of him and making a show of it in the process. Even if there had been fight left in him, there was little that he could do - he had no wand after all. Narcissa was the only one who could intervene - to demand respect as she firmly reminded Bellatrix that this was _her_ home, her legacy to protect, not just her husband's. But how long would the woman continue to listen to her?

Narcissa placed her hand upon the cool wood of the door, allowing it to recognise her magical signature before she murmured the password and stepped into the room, surveying it with a nostalgic eye. The bedroom looked exactly the same as it had almost twenty years ago, its furnishings elegant and feminine, the decor selected by Lucius's mother. The last time she had slept here, she and Lucius had been engaged to be married. Propriety had ensured that they maintain separate rooms until they were wed. A fond smile crept upon her face as she remembered just how little that rule had been obeyed, how he had visited her each night and then crept back to his own room, sated, at the crack of dawn. Then, she shook her head slightly and her smile faded as she brought herself back to reality. There was no use in reminiscing. That Lucius was only a memory now.

She made her way to an ornate cherry wardrobe that stood against the far wall, stroking her index finger over its elegantly twisted design before pulling the doors open. She breathed a sigh of relief as her eyes roamed its floor and located a smooth ebony box engraved with the initials NB. She had remembered the box a few weeks ago, but it had been so long since she'd last seen it; she'd been worried that she'd moved it somewhere else over the years and forgotten. She bent down and smoothly scooped up the box. She moved to the bed with it cradled in her arms and sat down gently, stroking her index finger over the box as she softly murmured the appropriate incantation. It had been so long ago, but she remembered it perfectly. She heard a click, and then the lid to the box lifted slowly. She gently raised the lid, revealing a necklace, diamond encrusted with a large black one at its centre. It was nestled in a bed of black silk, and the note that it had come with was still tucked underneath. Carefully, she pinched the corner of the note and pulled it out. It said one word.

 _Forgiven._

Narcissa placed the note in her lap as she scooped out the contents of the box, wrapping the necklace up in the silk, carefully ensuring that her fingers did not dance over its surface. She tucked it gently into the pocket of her robes then slipped the note back into the box, dropping the lid softly closed. She returned to the wardrobe and placed it back in the same position, then made her way out of the room. She stopped in the doorway to give the room one final glance, a part of her knowing that she would likely never set her eyes upon it again. She nodded decisively and stepped back, closing the door behind her. She had to hurry back before they noticed her absence.

* * *

The four of them reached the cellar, Draco silent as Greyback continued to taunt the two boys – Weasley in particular – loudly voicing his intentions to sup upon Granger and claim her as his own. While the boy behind him had remained surprisingly silent the entire time, Weasley had not been able to hide his rage - even without the ability to talk, his growling had made his feelings all too clear.

Disarming the barrier, Draco stepped aside, and the two boys stumbled unceremoniously down the stairs and into the cellar, Greyback thrusting his wand at their backs. Draco curtly informed the werewolf that his services were no longer required, staring up at Greyback coolly as the other leered, the putrid reek of the werewolf wafting over him. For a moment, he expected some kind of confrontation, but Greyback had swung around abruptly, yelling a final threat down into the cellar before retreating, leaving Draco to apply the barrier once more.

After Greyback had rounded the corner, he stepped quietly into the cellar, standing halfway down the stairs. He eyed the two boys who glared up at him from the dusty floor then pointed his wand at Weasley. Too slow, the boy that he was certain was Potter tried to leap in front of him. _Always the hero_ , Draco thought in amusement.

" _Finite Incantatem_." Draco released the spell on Weasley's tongue, relishing the way that the dark-haired boy's mouth gaped open. Weasley however, remained indignant, eternally ungrateful, and Draco felt particularly smug when he asked, "Better now?"

"Fuck you, Malfoy." Weasley snarled, and his friend blocked him as the redhead made to throw himself forward. Surprisingly, Weasley heeded the movement and did not try to push past, though he still looked furious.

"Smart decision, Potter," he said softly, "Attempting to attack me would be… unwise."

He noticed that neither of them bothered to deny Potter's identity, which was a foolish choice on their part if they were hoping to maintain the lie that they'd told upstairs. Potter simply glared up at him, or at least that was what it looked like he was doing – it was difficult to know for sure since his face was so swollen.

He backed the way up the rest of the stairs, forcing himself to take his time and ignore the furious ricocheting of his heart in his chest. Even if he was the only one with a wand, even if he knew how to protect himself, he could feel the terror rising within him as he looked down on the two boys that stood frozen on the cellar floor, staring up at him with expressions of utter abhorrence. If they had their wands, he was sure that they would attempt to annihilate him without a second thought. He reached the top and applied the barrier.

"YOU COWARD!" he heard Weasley yell, but by then, he'd already turned away.


	3. Wards and Whispers

Chapter Three: Wards and Whispers

Granger started to scream then, the shrill cries ringing clearly down the hall. The sound of Weasley thundering up the stairs followed behind him as the boy howled her name, hissing at Draco to let them out, but Draco kept his back on them and continued to make his way to the drawing room, towards that dreadful sound. When he returned there, however, he wished that he'd lingered longer. Although he'd heard her screams the entire way back, even his awareness of what was likely happening to her hadn't sufficiently prepared him for the sight. Granger lay spreadeagled, magically bound to the floor with a Sticking Charm, and from his guess, she'd received the Cruciatus Curse multiple times already. Her face was screwed up in pain and anguish as she gasped back tearful breaths and struggled to control her tremors.

Draco could hardly count the number of times that he had seen people receive the Cruciatus, but he'd hardly desensitised himself to the sight. Seeing and hearing it still made him feel sick and terrified, because he also knew what it felt like to be the one writhing on the floor. He and Granger had history, but that meant nothing now. He loathed the bint and her know-it-all ways, how she acted so self-righteous, and how her marks were better than his all the damn time – his father had never let him forget that. They had been enemies for years and his dislike for the Mudblood was great indeed, but no matter his opinion of her heritage or her personality he didn't wish this upon her, especially not at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange. Particularly not a Bellatrix Lestrange who believed that she had been personally wronged.

He hovered in the doorway for a moment as he took in the scene and calmed his features, then forced his feet to move, making his way to where his mother and father stood near the fire, sticking close to the perimeter of the room and as far from Bellatrix and Granger as he could. Lucius was staring dully at the sight before him, while Narcissa's face was expressionless, her gaze hovering a few inches above her sister's bent head. If the Dark Lord was present, Draco thought sickly, his father would be kneeling, pushing his face into the floor as he begged for the privilege of torturing Granger. Seeing his father - seeing a _Malfoy_ in such a position - made Draco feel filthy, furious and ashamed, but for some reason, it seemed par for the course for Lucius. Bellatrix would never grant him such allowances, however, no matter how much he begged her. This was her own business.

Bellatrix looked positively manic, her eyes wide and dark in her gaunt face as she hovered over the girl, her tongue tracing itself over her top teeth. She crucioed Granger again, cackling as those bloodcurdling screams permeated the room once more. Then, she suddenly released the curse and rocked back on her heels, her face contorting in disgust.

"This stupid girl has pissed on your floor, Cissy, the filthy animal!" her voice was a hysteric snarl, "You're really getting on my nerves, Mudblood, befouling this house, lying to me-"

"PLEASE!" the girl sobbed, "I told you the _truth_! I did!"

"You lie!" Bellatrix hissed, "You got into my vault, and now you need to learn a lesson," she bent her face closer to Granger, "You need to be reminded of your place!"

She shuffled herself so that she was leaning over Granger's arm, then forced the sleeve of Granger's shirt up past her elbow. Granger wailed, not so much at what Bellatrix had just done, but in anticipation of what may happen.

Draco saw Bellatrix pull the knife from her belt then, saw its gleam as she turned it in her hand. His eyes widened as he watched. He knew what that knife could do; she'd marked him with it before. He felt sick as the blade caught the light and Granger noticed it too, her voice becoming even more frantic in her heightened panic. She threw her head and shoulders from side to side in a useless attempt to rip herself from the floor.

" _No_! We found it – we did, we –" and then her words became bloodcurdling screams again as Bellatrix made contact with skin, bending lower as she twisted the point of her cursed blade into the flesh of the girl's bare forearm.

He tried to stop himself from shaking as he stood there listening to her screams and fixed his eyes upon his boots, biting the inside of his cheek so hard that he could taste the blood welling in his mouth. He needed to stay in control. But he was failing, he knew it, he knew that his terror was obvious and if Bellatrix saw, if she noticed how weak he was, she'd find a way to exploit it, right then and there. He glanced at his parents and his mother's blue eyes flicked to his, a warning. He closed his eyes then, and tried to think of Quidditch, of the feeling of flying, of weaving and diving and the exhilaration that made him feel so alive. When life had been simpler, when he hadn't been a Death Eater, just been a Seeker… but Potter had been there too. Potter, Weasley… Granger. And with that, his thoughts were brought straight back to the present. He felt like they'd been standing there for hours even though it had only been a few minutes. Why couldn't it stop?

"There we are!" Bellatrix finally announced brightly, "Much better."

His eyes snapped open. Bellatrix had risen to her feet and Granger lay there below her, so quiet and motionless now, her eyes glazed and only just slightly open as they stared off to the side. It looked as if she was barely conscious. Her forearm was a bloody mess – Bellatrix had carved a word into her skin. He couldn't see the entirety, but it started with an 'M'… oh.

"Revolting," Bellatrix said in disgust, nudging at the girl with the toe of her boot, "Your filth is all over my knife, you wretched Mudblood, but at least you'll be able to remember what you are, now." She bent back over Granger – who didn't even flinch, didn't react at all – and wiped it on the girl's cheek and down the front of her shirt, then tutted and stepped away.

.

Draco knew that it was sheer idiocy that brought him to the cellar for a second time, but for some reason he couldn't keep away. Wormtail had taken Granger down with the others after Bellatrix had hurt the girl enough to please her - gouging the word 'Mudblood' into Granger's arm hadn't been the extent of her plans. She had been pulled onto her feet, and had only managed to stand there shakily for a few seconds before collapsing under her own weight, so she'd been more or less dragged from the drawing room. The Dark Lord would be summoned, Bellatrix had informed them, but not yet. There was a reason behind this decision that the madwoman would not reveal, but her mood had been thunderous, so questions had not been asked. She had swirled from the room and retired to her quarters and Wormtail and his parents had followed suit.

Draco had put out the fire then sat there in the darkness. After half an hour, he had stood and made his way to the cellar.

Now, with each step of his descent, Draco berated himself for this newfound sense of curiosity and stupidity. Coming here was idiotic, risky, and he wasn't one to take risks if the odds weren't in his favour. However, he had questions that needed answering, and at this point it seemed as if Potter and the rest of his sodding Golden Trio were the only people who could do this.

The light from the tip of his wand revealed the space at the front of the cellar to be empty, which he had expected. There was no point in Potter and Weasley lingering by the stairs if there was no one around to hear them yelling, after all. They'd be tucked around the corner where Luna and Ollivander had been. They'd be comforting Granger and plotting their revenge, or something like that... though he wasn't quite sure if Gryffindors were even capable of plotting things. He had heard faint voices murmuring as he'd walked noiselessly down the stairs but as he drew closer, the whispers ceased.

"Someone's here," a quiet voice punctured the silence, and he knew that one belonged to Potter.

There was a sharp intake of breath and a sob; that must have been Granger. He heard no roar of rage, so he figured that Weasley was asleep. Typical.

"Is that you, Draco?" asked a voice, sounding clearly through the gloom. Luna.

" _What_?!" yelped Granger, her voice hoarse. At the same time, Potter growled, "Malfoy!"

"For your own sakes, I would keep your voices down!" he hissed, moving faster as he rounded the corner and lifted his wand so that he could see them.

Potter, Granger and Luna, huddled together in a small circle, squinted into the light emanating from Draco's wand. Luna had her arm around Granger, who was slumped and leaning into the Ravenclaw. Potter, untied now for some reason, sat with one hand sitting on Granger's thigh, but was bracing himself to leap up and defend the group. He lifted his hand higher so that the light shifted beyond them, revealing Weasley, who was sleeping as he'd expected, and Ollivander who was as well.

He peered at Granger, noting that her sleeve had been drawn down since she'd been sent to the cellar, covering the injury - or the first one, anyway - that Bellatrix had inflicted. She noticed the direction of his stare.

"Your arm-"

"Was it good, Malfoy?" she interrupted, tucking it behind her and out of view.

"What?"

"Did you enjoy watching her mark me?" she asked darkly, "So that I can remember exactly what I am?"

He sneered, "You really think that I'm that sick?"

"Tell me, then," she breathed, brushing Luna's arm away and leaning forward, her eyes glittering dangerously, "Tell me I'm not a Mudblood."

But he couldn't tell her that, because she was one. So he simply looked back at her.

Hermione nodded then, pulling back again, "Well that clears things up doesn't it?" she commented scornfully, toeing the ground.

They regarded each other in silence. Luna's expression was pensive, Granger remained suspicious and disgusted, and Potter's brows were scrunched as if he were trying to solve a puzzle. Draco simply stood there, feeling foolish for remaining silent, but not certain how to proceed with finding out what he wanted to know. Finally, Potter spoke.

"You could have told them it was me. Why didn't you?" his voice was low and untrusting.

It was a question that he known Potter would ask, but the answer to it was one that he hadn't entirely worked out for himself. That was part of why he was here. Before he could come up with a sufficient answer, snarky or otherwise, Luna provided one for him.

"He's having doubts; he's wondering if his loyalties truly lie in the right place."

"I'm not having doubts," he growled, "Shut that batty mouth of yours, Lovegood."

"What, so watching me get tortured wasn't convincing enough for you to realise you're on the wrong side?" Granger's tone sounded flippant as she stared at him again, but he knew the girl was anything but.

"I can't stop that sort of thing!" he snapped.

"Coward." he heard her whisper under her breath, kicking at the ground once again.

"Yes," he snapped, "Of course I'm a coward! I value my life."

Her response was quick, "Stay on the side you're currently on, and you'll find it won't last long."

"I made my choice," he tugged his sleeve up and displayed his left forearm, revealing the Dark Mark. Granger drew in a sharp breath, while Potter looked disgusted but unsurprised at the sight. Luna simply bobbed her head in a nod of acknowledgement, as if people had been showing them to her all of her life. Noticing Potter and Granger's expressions, he felt a surge of shame flash through him. He swallowed it down. Why should the disappointment of two Gryffindors mean anything to him? Particularly ones like Potter and Granger?

"So, are you here to torture the rest of us now, Malfoy? You want to prove a point? Show us just how well they've trained you?" Potter tried to make the accusation sound flippant, but he wasn't as good at it as Granger had been, despite the fact that she'd hardly sounded convincing himself.

"No, I don't think so," Luna commented softly, twirling a loose strand of hair around a finger, "He only does it when they make him… and they don't know that he came down here, I don't think – he snuck in, I'm pretty sure."

"I swear, Lovegood, you need to stop acting as if you know me -"

"Fine," Potter held up a hand to interrupt him, "Who are you then, Malfoy? Tell us – we've got plenty of time to listen, after all."

"I don't need to tell you anything, Potter," he grit out.

"Then get to the fucking point!" Granger hissed at him.

His eyes widened of their own accord, taken aback by her profanity. He'd always known the girl was fierce – he still remembered the time she'd punched him in the face all those years ago – but he'd not expected her to use such language.

What _was_ his 'fucking point'?

"Do you think you can stop him?" he asked suddenly; this hadn't been what he was going to say, but it was as good a question as any. It was what he needed to know.

From the look on his face, Potter hadn't expected Draco to ask this question either, but he nodded all the same, "If we get out of here, I think we have a good chance."

"Good." He responded without even thinking, and the admission turned him cold, filling him with utter shock and fear. If the Dark Lord performed Legilimency on him and his shields weren't strong enough, if he discovered this confession lurking within the depths of Draco's mind, he'd be marked a traitor. He could only imagine what the Dark Lord would do to a traitor.

Potter raised his eyebrows, surprised at Draco's divulgence, and an inkling of hope appeared on his face, "Help us escape, then."

Draco let out a derisive laugh, "I can't do that!"

"Why not?" Potter's voice was indignant, hinting at his naivety.

"They'll kill me. They won't hesitate."

Potter looked as if he was going to continue arguing, but closed his mouth abruptly and gave a short nod. The conversation lapsed into silence once more, the other three staring hopelessly at the ground. Draco felt defensiveness rising within himself; of course these people wouldn't understand his need for self-preservation – they had thrown themselves into this danger in the first place. And they'd been doing the same for years, apparently; it was sheer luck that they were still alive.

Draco sighed, "Look, I can't bear to look at your ugly mug any longer, Potter. Hold still," he lifted his wand at pointed it at the other boy.

The Gryffindor shuffled backwards, his face contorting in horror.

He raised an eyebrow and sighed, "Don't be daft, Potter. If I was going to curse you, it would have happened already. _Finite Incantatem_." He didn't bother to see the outcome, turning around instead. "Well, this was… pleasant," he said airily, stepping away, "I'll be going now."

"What – wait!"

Draco kept walking.

Harry's frustrated voice called after him, "Malfoy! At least give us the password to get out of here."

He'd been waiting for that.

He sighed and turned to face them, "You'll never get past the barriers alone," he told them, "Only those of Malfoy blood and their family house elves can pass them."

He turned and walked briskly from the cellar. He hoped it was enough.

.

Draco returned to his quarters and showered under scalding water. Even though he'd taken a bath earlier, he scrubbed at his body until his skin was raw and he finally felt clean. Certain that he wouldn't manage a proper sleep, he crawled into his bed anyway, burying himself in blankets as if they could shield him from the world. Squeezing his eyes closed in the darkness, he managed to doze fitfully over the next few hours. His dreams were permeated with Gryffindors... screaming, bloodied forearms, green eyes. It was still early when he woke, and instantly – he wasn't sure how – he knew something was happening.

He launched himself out of bed, pulling on the nearest robe and his trousers and boots from the day before. He grabbed his wand and made his way swiftly down the hall, casting a protective shield around himself as he made his way to the drawing room.

His mother and father were hovering in the entryway, their eyes focused upon something within. He crept up beside them, Narcissa turning instinctively and nodding at him as he arrived. Bellatrix stood in the centre of the room, her wand in one hand and dagger in the other. Greyback and Wormtail lingered behind her, their wands out as well. Facing them was Potter's trio as well as Luna - who was supporting a very weak looking Ollivander - and standing in front of them, tiny but looking more defiant than he'd ever seen one of their kind look before, was a house elf. He couldn't remember the name, but it was the one that Potter had cunningly caused his father to free back in second year. The creature had been working in the Hogwarts kitchens since then; Draco had been in there and seen him in his garish clothing, had heard him preaching his adoration of Harry Potter.

So they _had_ understood the clue that he'd given them. He hadn't known for certain whether the elf would still be able to access the manor and pass through the wards.

Together, the three Malfoys stepped further into the room, moving closer to Bellatrix, Greyback and Wormtail. The elf's eyes widened as he recognised them.

"You will stop this instant!" he cried as he pointed one long finger at them, his voice shrill and commanding.

"How dare you speak to your masters in such a way, you fetid little creature?" Bellatrix snarled, "I demand you step away from those traitors at once."

"Dobby has no master!" the elf squealed, "Dobby is a free elf, and Dobby has come to save Harry Potter and his friends!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw his father wrench his sleeve up and lay his fingers upon his Mark. Almost immediately, Potter's hands flew up to his scar, and he staggered backwards. Draco frowned at the sight, watching as Potter sank into a squatting position, bracing his other hand against the ground for balance. Granger bent down slightly, her hand gripping his shoulder, while Weasley moved to shield him.

Shrieking in rage at the elf's continued defiance, Bellatrix launched forward, hissing curses through her teeth. A shot of black light burst from her wand followed by a red one from Wormtail's but both suddenly rebounded against the protective shield that Dobby had quickly raised, causing them and the Malfoys to flatten themselves against the floor to avoid being hit by their own curses.

"The Dark Lord is coming!" Wormtail hissed, raising his head to glare past the house elf, "He has been alerted. You can't escape!"

Dobby snapped his fingers then, and Draco felt an uncontrollable pull as his wand was wrenched out of his hand. He realised then, too late, that his shield had disappeared when he'd thrown himself to the floor. And then suddenly, Potter clasped five wands in one hand, the other still pressing against his forehead. The boy reacted quickly, rising to his feet and turning to toss four of the wands to Granger, Weasley and Luna, who claimed one for Ollivander. He kept the fifth – Draco's wand – for himself.

Draco scrambled to his feet, intending to race back out to the hall. He wasn't sure what he'd do when he got there, but it would at least put some distance between them. But as he stood, a sudden force threw him backwards. He landed hard on his back, cursing internally as the air was knocked out of him. He raised his head, gasping for breath, trying to spot the escapees. Potter had moved to stand in a close clump with the others, his back to Draco as he clutched onto the house elf. Nearby, he saw Bellatrix struggling to her feet, her fingers still wrapped around her cursed dagger. As the elf snapped his fingers a final time, the boy glanced over his shoulder, and for a second, his eyes met Draco's. Then, they vanished.

Draco heard something groan from above him. He looked up at the ceiling. The last thing he saw was the chandelier as it came crashing down.

* * *

Narcissa stared at the empty space near the centre of the room. The captives were gone, all of them. Most importantly... they had lost Harry Potter.

Beside her, Lucius was cowering on the ground, his hand pressed to his mark as he howled in pain. Glancing around, she saw that Wormtail and Bellatrix were bent in similar positions; they could feel their Marks burning too. The Dark Lord was coming. A few metres away, beyond the unconscious form of Greyback, she spotted Draco, lying motionless beneath the smashed chandelier, buried beneath crystal and chain. She needed to move, now.

Narcissa scrambled to her feet, lifting her skirts as she ran to Draco. Her hands were shaking; her whole body was trembling in fear. She didn't dare use her wand in case she did more damage than good. She crawled over the debris, scraping her arms and her hands as she pulled off the debris covering her son. When he was clear she grasped a hold of his ankles, dragging him out to a clearer patch of floor, panting lightly with the effort. Seeing his heart beating, she gasped with relief. He was so still, but he was alive. She knelt by Draco's unconscious form, stroking his cheek gently with a forefinger and placing a soft kiss on his forehead. She reached into her pocket of her robes and drew out the silk-wrapped package that she'd tucked there the night before. She carefully unwrapped it now, and, holding onto the chain through the silk so that it didn't touch her skin, she gently lowered it, allowing it to dangle over Draco's fist. She moved herself back, ensuring that she wasn't touching him.

"Goodbye." She whispered, allowing the necklace to drop into his hand.

Draco disappeared.

* * *

Author's Note:

Thank you to my lovely friend KS for editing 3


	4. Almach Cottage

Author's Note:

Thanks for tuning in so far! This is my first attempt at creative writing in YEARS and I'm having lots of fun. Thank you to my lovely friend KS for editing!

Note: The short transcript at the end of this chapter is verbatim and italicised. It occurs earlier in this story than in DH, but... this is AU, right? :)

* * *

Chapter Four: Almach Cottage

When Draco opened his eyes, he found himself facing a pale yellow wall. Squinting at it in confusion, and rousing no memories that were of any help to him, he rolled over, finding himself in an unfamiliar bedroom. White lace curtains framed a window through which sunlight poured. He gazed around him, taking in a pale wooden dresser, and matching bedside tables. A faded blue rug sat on the gleaming hardwood floor. Apart from these things, and the bed that he lay in, the room was bare. There were three doors which he guessed most likely led to a wardrobe, bathroom and the house beyond.

Draco peered down at himself, examining the unfamiliar flannelette pyjama shirt and matching bottoms. Then, panicking, he realised that he didn't know where his wand was. He patted around himself and under his pillows, frantically searching through the folds of his sheets and pyjamas. Nothing. He pushed himself up into a sitting position and reached for the bedside table closest to him, wrenching out the single drawer. Empty. Cursing, he scrambled to the other side of the bed and checked the other table drawer. Also empty.

Then he remembered. Potter. Potter had taken his wand.

He flopped back down onto the pillows with a frustrated sigh and gazed up at the ceiling, attempting to calm his nerves and work out what he should do. An unfamiliar place, no form of protection, and pyjamas. However, he was in a cheerful room, in a comfortable bed, and alone… so perhaps he wasn't here as a prisoner.

Trying to make as little sound as possible, he pulled back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed, his toes making contact with the floor. He tiptoed across the room, keeping to the wall so that he was less likely to be seen if someone was outside the window. He felt a dull ache in his legs, back and stomach as he moved to the window and peeled back one curtain cautiously, peering outside. There was an abundant garden and a green shed that was surrounded by a low fence backing onto a stretch of rolling fields. No one was out there.

From the looks of it, Draco estimated that it was about midday, but of course, he couldn't cast a Tempus Charm to confirm this. He stood and considered the doors, weighing his options. He pulled the first door open a crack, revealing a hallway. He could take the Gryffindor approach and barge out there straight away. However, no matter how sunny this bedroom was, he wasn't quick to trust others, not with his recent life experiences, and especially unarmed. He was in reasonable shape, but he didn't consider himself to be particularly strong, particularly after weeks of sleepless nights and limited appetite. Instead, he gently pressed the door closed, then swung around and proceeded to search the room. In the dresser, he found exactly one set of underwear and one pair of socks. The wardrobe revealed a pair of shoes, some grey woollen trousers, a white button up shirt and a black jacket. Everything was in his size, and Draco was smart enough to know that this was no coincidence. Taking the hint, he collected each item of clothing and made his way through the final door which, as he'd expected, led to a bathroom. It was smaller than what he was used to at the manor, but it was tidy and cheerful, just as the bedroom had been. A towel hung on the rack, and a toothbrush and toothpaste sat by the sink. He gazed at them forlornly, remembering once again that he was limited to doing everything the Muggle way. He opened the door to the shower and turned on the taps, then turned back to the bathroom door. Closing it, he realised that there was no way to lock it.

Still feeling strange about the fact that he had absolutely no idea where he was, Draco stepped under the pleasantly heated water and rubbed at his face, feeling the staleness of sleep wash away. Looking down at himself, he noticed bruises and scrapes that hadn't been there before. It wasn't until he reached for the shampoo bottle and started lathering his hair that he noticed just how sore his back was, particularly his shoulders. What had happened to him?

He could remember vague details from the manor. That word that Bellatrix had carved into Granger's arm, and with it, the sound of her screams. That strange encounter down in the cellar in the dead of night with Potter, Granger and Luna. His father's old house elf appearing and shouting at his aunt. Losing his wand to Potter – in fact, losing five wands to Potter. The chandelier crashing down and then... and then nothing. But right before that… there was a blurry picture in his head – perhaps it had been a dream? – of Potter, turning to glance down at him, an apologetic expression on his face, before disappearing into thin air.

Draco emerged from the shower and dried his hair with the towel, scrutinising his expression in the mirror, which thankfully wasn't enchanted to pay him compliments. Not that there was anything to compliment right now. He looked tired, his translucent skin making him appear sickly, but that was hardly unusual - he'd looked like that for awhile. There was a cut on his lip, another on his chin and the dark smudge of a bruise on his forehead. He frowned at them, wondering again whose house he was in, and why the occupants hadn't bothered to heal these minor injuries, but had taken such care to provide clothes for him.

He dressed and returned to the room, which remained as he'd left it. He glanced towards the bed and then shuffled over and proceeded to make it. He'd never made a bed before in his life, but he had no wand and could hardly summon a house elf to do it for him. Prisoner or not, he'd still been raised properly.

With nothing left to do, he sat down on the bed and waited. He didn't have to wait long, for ten minutes later, there came a soft knock on the door.

Draco started, wrenched suddenly from his thoughts. He paused a moment, heart racing. "Yes?" he called, his voice hoarse from lack of use. He cleared his throat and repeated himself more clearly.

The door pushed open slowly and a brunette woman stepped into the room. He'd never met her before, but he didn't need to in order to know who she was.

"Aunt Andromeda?"

She smiled at him and nodded, "Hello Draco."

.

Andromeda Tonks clearly resembled the youngest Black sister; she looked almost identical to Narcissa apart from the different coloured hair. Though as Draco looked closer, he could see differences. Narcissa was also paler than her older sister, while Andromeda obviously spent more time outside – her arms were toned and tanned and a light dusting of freckles covered her nose. The main difference that Draco noticed, however, was the difference in how they carried themselves. There was an ease about Andromeda as she moved towards him that his poised mother had never possessed. Draco watched as she conjured a chair and sat opposite him, noting with surprise that despite him being a stranger to this woman – this woman who had been disowned by his family – she didn't seem to harbor any resentment towards him. Not yet, at least. While this was unexpected, Draco wasn't particularly concerned about what the woman thought of him. He needed to get back to the manor.

"I wish we were meeting under better circumstances," she told him with a sympathetic smile.

He ignored her comment, for it had never been intended for them to meet. He wasn't interested in partaking in a show of smiles and other falsities. "Where am I, and why am I here?" he demanded.

Her smile faded and she bobbed her head slightly, as if to acknowledge that the lack of pleasantries had been expected. "This is my house- Almach Cottage. A Portkey brought you here, though you were unconscious when you arrived."

So, someone had sent him here. His mother, of course. It wasn't particularly difficult to deduce.

"How long have I been asleep?" he asked stiffly.

"Twenty-eight hours, almost."

His manners stopped him from gaping in surprise as he wondered two things. First: how had he managed to sleep that long? And second: what kind of state was the manor in, and his family in particular? The Dark Lord had been summoned more than a day ago; anything could have happened in the time in between.

"I have to go back –" his words were cut off as he noticed her shaking her head.

"I'm sorry, Draco, but I can't let that happen," she told him quietly.

He threw himself to his feet, "I need to leave!"

"You can't leave," she sat there, eyeing him calmly; he wanted to throttle her.

"What do you mean?" he demanded, glaring down at her; manners be damned.

"There are wards around my property that prevent you from leaving. You need to stay here."

"So what, I'm your prisoner?" he spat.

She continued to ignore his sarcastic tone, her own voice mild, "You can't return there… wherever it was that you were. Malfoy Manor, I assume?"

"My family is there! _He_ is probably there now. Do you understand what will happen to them – to me – if I don't go back? It's already been more than a day. Don't you know what could happen?"

"I can imagine," Andromeda replied, "And I think Cissy could too, and that's why she sent you here."

"Do not speak about my mother as if you know her," Draco snarled, "You have no fucking right!"

Andromeda paused, "You're right, Draco. I – I don't know her, not anymore. But I do know this – you would not be here unless there was no better option."

"So she sent me here, to _you_. Why?"

"Years ago, right before I left, I gave her a Portkey. What happened between me and the rest of the family was exacerbated by my choice of husband, but the disparity in our viewpoints had existed for years. Our relationship was already toxic. Once I could leave, I did. Cissy... well, Bellatrix had already sank her claws in, so she had no great love for me either. I was engaged to your father, but with me leaving... I knew that she would wed him instead. Even though she agreed with all their sentiments at the time, I knew that there was a chance that one day, she might find herself in danger with no means of escaping it I created the Portkey so that if she needed protection, she could seek it, despite any hatred she may hold for me. The fact that you are here now, after all these years, indicates the severity of the situation you are in."

"I cannot just leave her there with him, and Bellatrix-"

"She could have come with you," Andromeda interrupted, "But she didn't. Draco, she knew the risk of staying. You will need to trust in her. I am sorry, truly. But you will be staying here."

She stood up and made her way to the door, her face sympathetic.

" _You_ turned your back on your family. You don't understand!" he growled.

She fixed him with a small smile over shoulder, "Then I will try to. Come, you must be hungry."

Andromeda slipped out the door, leaving Draco to swallow his retort and stare furiously after her. He sighed and followed her down a hall which opened up into a combined kitchen and dining area. It was bright, homely and welcoming and so absolutely unlike Malfoy Manor. She gestured to a stool by the counter and he sat wordlessly, glowering at her as she moved about the kitchen.

"Coffee?" she asked, ignoring his obvious hostility, and he nodded grudgingly, resolving not to comment on how she proceeded to prepare his drink the Muggle way rather than with her wand.

He gazed around the room as he waited, searching for a fireplace but to no avail. There had to be one somewhere, but where would he Floo to? What destination would be safe _and_ linked on this particular network? Hopelessness rose in him as he realised that for now, that option was hardly possible. Perhaps if he got his hands on a wand, he would be able to Disapparate. No, that was also unlikely, he realised, recalling the wards.

Andromeda set a steaming mug before him, placing milk and sugar alongside it so that he could make adjustments to his liking. He spooned in sugar and poured milk, watching her silently as she conjured a plate of sandwiches and set it between them, reaching for one herself. She leaned against the counter as she chewed, gazing out the window into the garden beyond. Draco reached for a sandwich of his own. They ate in silence for a minute, Draco feeling slightly calmer, more willing to listen to the woman as he reached for a second one.

Andromeda reached into her pocket and placed a small container on the counter, "Bruise removal paste," she stated, pushing it towards him, "I know that you and I are strangers, Draco, so I don't expect you to talk to me… yet. At some point, you'll need to, though."

"I didn't ask to be here," he said shortly.

"No, you didn't. But there must have been a reason that she sent you, yes?"

Draco took a sip of his coffee but did not reply. Andromeda didn't ask again, instead trying from a different angle.

"I changed you into your pyjamas when you arrived," she continued, her eyes flicking down to his forearm, "I noticed-"

"I'm not going to talk about that with you," he told her abruptly, his hand moving to his sleeve and tugging it down, despite the area already being hidden.

She nodded, unsurprised, "Okay."

"So, what am I supposed to do now?" he asked sardonically, running his eyes over the open room once more, "Are we going to acquaint ourselves, share life stories?"

She snorted lightly and sipped at her coffee, "Something like that. Well, you can't return home, and going back to Hogwarts will be too dangerous for you. At this point, you'll be staying here. You'll be safe."

"Here?" he repeated scornfully.

The woman's face clouded slightly before she blinked it away, "After our property was raided last August, we made our wards stronger and more complex. As I mentioned earlier, they prevent you from passing, both physically and magically. The same is true for those who wish to come in. Apart from the very specific Portkey that I issued to your mother, our home is only accessible via one entrance, which is located at another Unplottable property-"

Hearing that, Draco's heart sank, as all notions of using the fireplace dissipated.

"-Both places are warded using the Fidelius Charm. Our daughter – Nymphadora – _was_ our the secret keeper-" she eyed him pointedly as she stressed the word 'was', "-But the current one is a less obvious choice."

He recognised the name of the cousin he'd never met. He knew that she was a few years older and had been a Hufflepuff during her Hogwarts days; his father had mentioned this to him numerous times with great satisfaction. He also knew that she worked as an Auror now, but little else.

"There's something else you should know – she's aware that you're here, and she's informed the others."

"The others?" he echoed, fear rippling through him – his cousin was an Auror; perhaps she'd notified her colleagues. It didn't matter whether or not the ones that Nymphadora had informed were loyal to the Dark Lord; he was bound to suffer no matter whose hands he fell into.

"I assume you've heard of the Order." It was a statement, not a question.

"Are you kidding?!" he cried in exasperation. Yes he had heard of Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix, the so-called secret society of do-gooders. Potter probably was their leader now that the old man was dead. As for the other members, well, he could only make guesses, but he was confident that he could correctly name a few. He couldn't work out which was a worse alternative – the Aurors knowing his location, or Potter's lot. "You gave your sister a Portkey and she sacrifices her own life and sends her son to you instead, and then you alert the fucking Order? I thought you said I was here under your protection, not being sent to the slaughter!"

"Of course you're under my protection," she replied, calm as ever, "But informing them is a responsibility that we won't shirk, no matter what our family ties are. You will remain here, as promised. You will be protected, as promised."

He thought of Potter, Granger, Luna and the others, thought of what he'd done to them, and more importantly, what he hadn't done, "The Order must be barmier than I thought if they think that I deserve their protection."

"No one said anything about you deserving protection," Andromeda answered coolly, "But you will receive it, all the same. This a safe-house. People come and go here as they need. You are one of those people now, except you'll be staying."

They continued to eat and sip in silence, and then he sighed, realising that she was waiting for him to speak. The silence became overwhelming.

"You said people come and go?"

"That's right," Andromeda nodded, "This location serves as a safe haven for members of the Order and its supporters. Different types come here – people who are on the run and need to lay low, or who are injured and need a place to heal, or as temporary housing if their own place has been destroyed. The house is one of many."

"And there's no one else here at the moment? Just you and me?"

Andromeda nodded her head, "Just us. There were a couple of other people last week." He noticed that she didn't mention their names, not that he could do anything with the information anyway. Who could he pass it on to? "There's been a steady flow of people coming through lately, though," she continued, "I'm sure we'll have more guests soon."

 _Fantastic_ , Draco thought to himself bitterly.

"I expect you are aware that you will need to use your utmost discretion when we have company. The people who visit here are allies, but your position is precarious nevertheless."

He merely raised an eyebrow, implying that the woman must think him stupid to need mention such a thing.

"While you're here, I'd appreciate your help," she added.

He blinked. "Pardon?"

"Normally Ted is here too, but it became too dangerous for him to stay... what with the new Muggle-Born Registration Commission," she spat the last few words.

 _Ted…that must be the Mudblood husband that got Andromeda's name burned from the tapestries._

"We were developing restorative potions – our garden is large, so we have the means to grow a wide range of ingredients. However, with Ted not being here anymore, and me needing to look after visitors and tend to other business… it's been hard to keep up. Are you a capable brewer, Draco?"

Draco sniffed and was about to respond haughtily before realising that an honest answer may not be to his advantage, "I'm capable enough," he conceded.

She smiled, "Well that's good to know. It'll help to keep you busy. I know that it might be hard for a while, not being able to return to school. Nymphadora's got her old books here, actually. Her room is more or less how it was during her Hogwarts days. I'll take you there now, and you can have a look through – see if anything there interests you. You'll be getting more clothes of course. She's fetching some for you now, in fact. She should be back within a couple of hours."

"Fine." He knew that the one-word response sounded immature and ungrateful, but at this point, he could hardly be bothered with politeness. He wasn't exactly thrilled to be in this position, after all. It wasn't as if the woman didn't know that.

Andromeda gestured to his mug, "More coffee before we head to her room?"

He passed it to her, "Yes… thank you," he said grudgingly. She tilted her head in response, smiling at him once again.

The situation wasn't great, but it could be worse, he thought, watching as Andromeda set the kettle to boil. This time, she added the sugar and milk herself – obviously she'd watched him the first time and knew how to prepare it now. He gave a nod of thanks as he accepted the cup from her, then stood and followed as she led him back down the hall to a room that was adjacent to his.

Nymphadora's room was everything that Draco's guestroom was not. The walls – what could be seen of them anyway - were painted in a shimmery paint that changed from purple to green depending on the angle at which one looked at them. Nymphadora had plastered much of it with posters of bands, however. Some were wizard ones, but many appeared to be Muggle musicians, though he could only deduce that by the fact that the posters didn't move. They'd made it onto the ceiling as well. He noticed that she – or the younger version of her, at least – appeared to have an affinity for men who wore eyeliner and painted their nails black. The shelves of her bookcase were overflowing, with several piles on the floor, including a stack of magazines. A tall skinny cupboard was crammed full of tiny plastic cases, the spines of each labelled. Another bookcase proudly displayed a range of knickknacks. Many items he couldn't recognise, but among them he identified a Remembrall, two Sneakoscopes, and several amethyst cluster geodes. He spied a broomstick propped in one corner and eyed it enviously, realising with a pang that it would be a long time before he'd be able to fly again. The double bed had a simple lavender blanket thrown over it, but was covered in black and silver cushions and plush dragons. He'd never seen a Hufflepuff's bedroom before, but this hadn't been what he'd expected.

"Nymphadora is… a bit of a hoarder," Andromeda told him with a smirk, and all Draco could do is nod, "She said to tell you that you're free to have a look around and borrow anything you want."

"Okay," he tried not to sound too interested.

"I'll leave you to it," she said, then turned to leave the room.

"Andromeda?"

She turned back to him, "Yes?"

"Almach Cottage isn't a cottage," he knew he was being rude. He didn't even know his point in saying such a thing.

Andromeda gazed at him blankly, then her face split into a grin, "Oh, I know," she said cheerfully, "But Ted called the place that from the beginning. He started it to tease me, see, since I'd gone from an abode fit for a daughter of _'The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black' -_ " her words were mocking, "-to here. The name stuck, and now that's what everyone calls it."

"I see," he said shortly, turning his back to her.

Draco stood there a moment, listening as Andromeda's footsteps faded away, then made his way over to the bookcase. Among the volumes crammed onto the shelves he spied most of the books that formed the seventh year syllabus, though some were earlier editions. Of course back in Nymphadora's days, 'Dark Arts', now taught by Amycus Carrow, hadn't been a part of the Hogwarts curriculum, so that particular text was missing. The majority of the seventh year books he'd read through entirely by now, even though it was only the end of December. It seemed these would come in handy, however, and particularly the potions ones, if he was supposed to help with brewing. He pulled those off the shelves and started to make a pile beside him. Absently, he wondered if he'd still be taking his NEWTs and if there was any point in preparing for them at all.

He wasn't entirely sure how he felt about the idea of making potions with his aunt. He was a Death Eater, after all, and she was aligned with the Order. However, she had mentioned that she was making restorative potions, not poisons, so perhaps he could accept that, since he wasn't going to be making anything that could hurt his family. He knew he could simply refuse to help her, but the idea of brewing things regularly was rather enticing to him and outweighed the urge to be spiteful. It was something that he could do without a wand, and something that he could use to distract himself. In another life, he'd dreamed of training under Severus after he graduated and becoming a Potions Master himself. It had always been just a dream because, whilst potioneering was an admirable skill and a suitable pastime, and even though his father had a deep respect for his former protege, Lucius had higher hopes for his son.

He continued to examine Nymphadora's books. There were other textbooks that he assumed she'd used during her Auror training. They would be interesting to read through, even if it was a career that he'd never been interested in before and would be stupid to consider now. After sliding a few of these onto his pile, he bent lower to examine some smaller volumes. There were quite a few Muggle novels. He'd never read any before; such things would hardly have a place in the Malfoy library. Curious, he pulled out a few, reading the spines and flipping them over to peruse the blurbs. His cousin seemed to be interested in a genre of literature referred to as 'Science Fiction', he noted, adding _Neuromancer_ , _Ender's Game_ and _Foundation_ to the pile beside him.

After he had finished building his pile of books, he meandered over to the tall skinny cupboard, scrutinising the different cases there. Pulling some of them out, he recognised that some of them had covers that resembled the posters on the walls. The items were obviously Muggle, but beyond that he wasn't sure. He pushed them back into their places and returned to the pile of books, shifting them to beside the bed. He hovered by it for a minute, considering, then climbed onto it, grabbing one of the novels and settling himself against the pillows.

He was three chapters into _Ender's Game_ when an amused voice said, "Well this is a sight I never expected to see."

Draco threw himself up with a jolt, shocked by the sudden interruption. He glared up at the woman standing before him. She had a heart shaped face, twinkling dark eyes, bubble-gum pink hair, and, just like the bands she favoured, appeared to have a fondness for eyeliner. Hands on her hips as she grinned down at him, she looked very pleased with herself.

Draco refused to appear embarrassed by the fact that his cousin had caught him reading a Muggle book while nestled in a pile of cushions and stuffed dragons. He closed the book and placed it beside him, then fixed his gaze on the woman.

"Wotcher, cousin!" she greeted him cheerfully.

He couldn't help frowning at her casual attitude. He'd met enough Aurors over the years; this woman didn't seem to meet the profile at all. Unless this was some kind of façade... no, she was a Hufflepuff; she could hardly be so cunning.

"Nymphadora, I presume?" he asked stiffly.

The woman snorted, "Only to my mother. It's Tonks to everyone else."

"Tonks…" repeated Draco, uncertain. He wasn't one to use nicknames, particularly not with people that he'd just met, and especially not with people he had no intention of befriending.

"Tonks," she affirmed, "So, cousin. I hear you'll be staying here awhile."

Draco nodded stiffly, "So it seems."

Tonks laughed heartily, "You don't sound particularly thrilled about the idea. It's hardly a death sentence."

Draco froze at her words.

His reaction obviously confused her, as she paused a moment, appearing to analyse him, then frowned, "I didn't mean to-"

Draco put up a hand to stop her, "It's fine," he said shortly.

She regarded him for a moment, her head cocked to the side and her lips pursed, "Hmm… Draco, I know you've just arrived here and its a bit early to talk about serious stuff. However, if you're here as a defected Death Eater, that'll be taken into consideration… afterwards."

She meant after the war, of course, if Potter were to triumph. If that were to happen, then the Death Eaters - those still alive, anyway - would be put on trial before being locked away in Azkaban. Or Kissed.

He realised that it would be easy for him to go along with her - she'd provided him with an opening after all. He could lie, could swear fealty to Potter and the Light. Over time, perhaps he could gain their trust and an opportunity would arise where he could reunite with his family, return to their side. Alternatively, if the Light won the war and he was still affiliated with them, maybe he'd receive a reduced sentence or be able to avoid Azkaban altogether, as Tonks had implied.

But for any of that to happen, sacrifices would need to be made. Swearing fealty - even if it was false fealty - would put a great price on his head. Even if the Malfoys had fallen from grace in the eyes of their master, Draco was still a part of the Dark Lord's inner circle, and was privy to all kinds of information. The Light would expect him to share secrets, and the Dark would know this too. If he didn't prove useful, he would be discarded. If he managed to fool the Light and eventually return to his master, the Dark Lord may recognise his attempts at self-preservation for what they were, but that didn't guarantee that he would accept them. Draco would be tortured and punished at the very least; that much was a given. He could also be killed, particularly if he couldn't offer the Dark Lord enough information to redeem himself. Draco was cunning, not stupid; there were too many risks.

And in regard to the alternative - defecting and crossing to the Light for real - well, that was just ludicrous. Draco could hardly turn his back on his family - his mother in particular - even if meant that he could save himself.

Most importantly, his pride stood in the way. He couldn't bow to Potter.

No, he couldn't do that.

"Draco?" she was staring at him, her face slightly concerned. He realised that he'd been silent for a long time. "Did you want to-"

"-Who said anything about me being defected?" he interrupted, glaring at her darkly.

She eyed him a moment longer, then to his astonishment, fixed him with a bright smile, "Only time will tell, I reckon. Now… I've grabbed you some clothes, an assortment. The sizing might not be quite right, but I hope it's close. Since you're a… Malfoy, I'm going to hazard a guess and assume that they won't be up to your… usual standard. However, it's hard to sneak around, and I can hardly go into shops at the moment, so I've collected the majority from other safe-houses. I'm sure you know Harry, Ron and the Weasley twins?" Her eyes were wide as she finished, her expression too innocent to be believed.

Draco's eyes narrowed, "I'm going to wear clothes that belong to Potter and his Weasels?"

Tonks smiled slyly at him and winked, "Desperate times, right?"

He wanted to curse the woman, but of course he was wandless and couldn't. She'd done this on purpose, of course she had.

"I hardly think they'd appreciate you donating to me on their behalf." He commented darkly.

"Well, Fred and George were thrilled to be of service, actually," she told him cheerfully, "And Harry and Ron, well… they're not around right now, so I couldn't really ask them. They can get new clothes, later."

"Ah yes, on the run with Granger," he murmured.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, "You were aware?"

He quickly covered for himself, "Well it's hardly difficult to work that out. They've all been absent from school the entire year."

Tonks nodded thoughtfully, but didn't seem entirely satisfied by his explanation.

"Well," Draco sighed, eager to end the conversation, "I suppose I'll go and have a look at these... clothes... that you've managed to scrounge for me." He clambered out of the bed as gracefully as he could manage, and bent down to scoop up the pile of books. Tonks shuffled back to let him through, remaining in the room as he crossed the hall to his own. He could practically feel her smiling at him.

.

A few hours later, the three of them were seated around Andromeda's small circular dining table for dinner. Tonks chatted merrily about their family's traditions as they spooned peas, corn, roasted vegetables and beef wellington onto their plates. The topic of Christmas was skirted around, most likely because Ted Tonks had been on the run during it. Draco wondered dully if anyone in Wizarding Britain had managed to have a normal Christmas. For the most part, however, he sat stonily, not bothering to comment or contribute his own stories despite the two women's obvious attempts to include him in the conversation.

As his aunt bustled about the kitchen, Tonks leaned over and produced a wireless radio from her back. Andromeda returned to the table with three mugs of hot chocolate, setting them down and casting an anxious glance at the wireless as she settled back into her seat. Both his aunt and his cousin looked considerably nervous as Tonks set it into position. Draco affected an expression of boredom, but in truth, he was curious, very curious.

"Potterwatch is on tonight," Tonks explained quietly, "It's a pirate station."

"Potterwatch?" he asked, forgetting his attempt to appear disinterested.

"A source of information," Andromeda murmured, steepling her fingers.

Tonks tapped the wireless with her wand and muttered, "Padfoot," and then the wireless came to life. Tonks and Andromeda leaned forward unconsciously, listening intently.

 _"…I'm pleased to tell you that two of our regular contributors have joined me here this evening. Evening, boys!"_ _"Hi."_ _"Evening, River."_ _"But before we hear from Royal and Romulus,"_ River continued, _"Let's take a moment to report those deaths that the_ Wizarding Wireless Network News _and the_ Daily Prophet _don't think important enough to mention."_

Here, Draco noticed Andromeda and Tonks grasp each other's hands over the table. To his surprise, he found nerves worm their way into his own stomach then. But of course, if anything had happened to _his_ family, Potterwatch wouldn't be lamenting it.

 _"It is with great regret that we inform our listeners of the murders of Ted Tonks and Dirk Cresswell."_

" _No_." Andromeda's voice was a hoarse moan. Tonks' other hand flew to her mouth.

 _"A goblin by the name of Gornuk was also killed…"_

Andromeda reached over and grabbed Tonks' wand, which was lying close to her on the table. She touched the wireless with the tip, and the broadcast faded to silence, then slumped back into her seat, shaking.

Draco watched as Tonks shuffled her chair closer to her mother, then leaned and gathered the older woman into her arms. Tears fell wordlessly down the Auror's cheeks, and he watched as her pink hair dulled to a mousy brown. Andromeda's guttural wailing filled the kitchen as her daughter cradled her close and stroked her trembling back. Tonks rested her chin on top of her mother's head and squeezed her eyes close, then started to let out gasping sobs of her own.

Wordlessly, Draco rose and stepped quietly out of the kitchen.

* * *

Author's Note

The name of Almach Cottage is not canon and was created for the purposes of this story.

'Almach' is a bright, golden-yellow star which is a constituent of 'Gamma Andromedae', a group of stars that represents the third-brightest point of light in the constellation of Andromeda.


	5. Mensis Ianuarius

**Author's Note:**

Thank you to my dear friend KS for your editing and feedback :)

P.S. I have to apologise to anyone reading this who is familiar with Supernatural... I always get "Wayward" stuck in my head when I'm writing this story.  
P.P.S. Sorry if you hadn't made that connection yourself, and you're now sitting there singing "Carry on my wayward son..."

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

* * *

Chapter Five: Mensis Ianuarius

Draco woke early the next morning, sweat-soaked and exhausted after a slew of nightmares that had depicted the repercussions of his mother's decision to Portkey him from the Manor. Sometimes, he had watched helplessly as she was tortured by the Dark Lord and faceless Death Eaters. Worse were the other times, when it was him who tormented her, casting that petrifying _Sectumsempra_ curse that Potter had unleashed upon him in sixth year, and laughing as blood gushed ceaselessly from the lacerations, flowing all the way down the cellar stairs...

He lay staring at the ceiling until his frantic breathing had slowed, then rolled and peered in the direction of the window. Being wandless, he couldn't cast a Tempus charm to find out the precise time – which frustrated him to no end – but he knew that the sun would begin to rise soon. Another day of wondering just how the Dark Lord had reacted when he had returned to find that Potter had escaped - along with every other prisoner that they had held captive - and that Draco was missing. Were his parents even still alive? What explanation could his mother possibly have offered to quell the Dark Lord's fury? Every idea that Draco came up with was wrought with holes, so he hoped that she had managed to be more cunning than he. That she had succeeded to out-Slytherin a Slytherin.

It was then that Draco realised that it was January 1st and that he would not be boarding the Hogwarts Express again anytime soon. Perhaps never.

A new year, and a new... home. Not that he believed that he could ever consider a place like Almach Cottage a home.

And Ted Tonks was dead.

He'd never met Andromeda's Mudblood husband, just like he'd never met any other members of the Tonks family before yesterday. He'd come up in conversation a few times over the years when his parents had been disparaging Andromeda and her failings, his aunt's name like acid on his mother's tongue, but he didn't know anything about the man himself.

What would the atmosphere in the house be like this morning? He assumed that Tonks, being in her twenties, didn't live at Almach Cottage these days, though he'd heard her enter her bedroom late last night, had heard the faint sound of her sobs on the other side of the hall. What would happen to him now, after one of his own had killed someone so dear to them? Now that their husband and father had been murdered, surely the Tonks women's hospitality towards the Death Eater they harboured would cease. Perhaps Draco was related to them by blood, but there was no bond between them.

Over the last year, Draco had become used to death. He'd heard the sounds of people dying at all hours of the day and night over the summer and during his mid-term stints at the manor. He'd seen the life vanish from peoples' eyes as the Killing Curse had finally hit them, watched as their bodies stilled on cold stone floors. A few months ago – though it seemed like years, now – the old Muggle Studies professor had been murdered just inches from where he'd sat as the Dark Lord levitated her above their dining table. He'd smelt death in all of its stages and how it seemed to cling to everything, become a part of everything. When the bodies were disposed of, they didn't need to be touched of course – they had wands, after all – but one time when he'd been alone, Draco had crept up to one and pressed a trembling finger to an icy cheek. And of course, there had been Dumbledore…

Used to death he may be, but mourning was something completely different. Mourning was foreign to him. His father's father, Abraxas Malfoy, had been the last grandparent to die, and his father had handled the matter with the cold fluidity of a business transaction. The others had passed before his birth and during his early childhood, hardly memories. He'd never witnessed true grieving, not among his family, not among his enemies. Blaise's stepfathers died from time to time, but his friend had always responded to the news in such a nonchalant manner that it could hardly be considered the same. He wasn't particularly happy with his current living arrangements, and he could hardly admit to liking his cousin or his aunt, but he wasn't above feeling some semblance of sympathy for them… even if he was mostly concerned about the impact that this could have on him. However, he wasn't sure what was expected of him now.

Feeling restless, he got up and showered, then returned to the bedroom with his towel wrapped around his waist. Not for the first time, he scrutinised his collection of hand-me-downs. Evidently, Tonks and the Weasley twins had conspired to provoke him, he realised, as he held up a crimson knitted jumper with a golden H on the front. He refolded it disgustedly and moved it to the bottom of the pile, reaching instead for a striped green and red t-shirt. Perhaps it'd make him look like a Christmas decoration, but that was alright. Better to look like that than one of Saviour Potter's groupies. He pulled on the black jacket that he'd been wearing the previous day, covering the Mark, and also a pair of faded jeans that were slightly too big around the waist, and slightly too short in the leg. Eyeing the cuffs distastefully, he rolled them up a bit. He sighed at his own ridiculous reflection, mirrored at him from behind the wardrobe door. No, there was not much that could be done. Later, he would take the time to sort through the clothes, to divide them into piles: tolerable, perchance, never. He wondered what had happened to the clothes that he'd been wearing when he'd arrived. He'd ask Andromeda later, perhaps after the funeral when all pertinent matters had been taken care of.

Draco made his way quietly down the hall, determined to collect some form of breakfast and retreat to his room as quickly as possible. He didn't know how the morning routine worked in this house, though he supposed he wouldn't be finding that out for a while; Ted's death would surely rock the usual schedules. When he reached the kitchen, he found Andromeda hunched over the dining table in a dusty pink dressing gown as she cradled a mug of tea. He froze in the doorway. Tendrils of brown hair – darker than Narcissa's, lighter than Bellatrix's – had escaped her loose bun and hung limply by her face, which was blotchy after hours of crying. She looked tired and strained, and he guessed that if she'd even managed to sleep, she'd gotten little of it. Unsure that he could face her, not now, not ever, Draco was ready to turn and go back to his room, but before he could, she raised her head and saw him. Her teary blue eyes met his and they crinkled as she gave him a tight smile.

"Don't worry about me, Draco," she said softly, "Come in."

He swallowed the natural urge that rose up in him to retort that he was hardly worried about her, and simply nodded stiffly, shuffling into the room.

"Kettle might need re-boiling." She mumbled, tracing a finger over the rim of her mug.

"Okay," he moved behind the counter and approached the kettle. He examined it for a moment, "Uh…"

"Oh!" she stood up, "Let me show you."

He stood there rigidly as she came up beside him, feeling awkward and defensive for needing this woman's help, both because he was interrupting her grieving, and also because it made him all the more conscious of his own vulnerabilities. He was tired of being in debt to people, and even if this was a minor service, it still added to the symbolic list in his head. With no trace of condescension whatsoever, she showed him how to flip the switch to boil the kettle, and opened a cupboard door, pulling out a mug for him. He locked his gaze on the sink, rather embarrassed that he hadn't been able to work such a simple thing out for himself.

"I'm used to elves," he said quietly, "And having a wand."

She gave a good-natured shrug, "No elves here, I'm afraid... I never managed to ask you what happened to your wand."

"It was left behind," he said, leaving out the fact that Potter had disarmed him, and that the wand was likely still in his possession, unless he had cast it away, "I'm… we don't have Muggle things… thank you," he gestured to the kettle. Even though he resented the whole situation that he had been forced into, he needed to convey some modicum of graciousness. It would hardly be wise to fall out of favour with his aunt now.

"Well, you can hardly know if you've never been shown."

He nodded politely, reaching for the kettle as it finished boiling and filling up his mug. He poured in a dash of milk, a teabag and two spoons of sugar, hesitated, then followed Andromeda back to the table. The two of them sat in silence for a few minutes, Draco locking his eyes on a whorl in the table as he sipped.

He hadn't known what to expect from the woman. When he thought 'Order of the Phoenix', he immediately thought of Gryffindors. He thought of idiots like Weasley, who would curse first and ask questions later. But Andromeda was a Slytherin, the same as him; if her resentment for Draco had grown as a result of what had happened to her husband, her vengeance would be exacted inconspicuously.

However, as he continued to watch his aunt from beneath his lashes, all he saw was a sadness that she didn't attempt to hide. His mother would never allow anyone to see her in such a state… but then, he'd never seen her grieve. Would she be like this as well, if his father died, or him? Or would she continue to hide behind that cool exterior of hers, convincing the world that she was impenetrable to pain?

Finally, Andromeda spoke. "There'll be a funeral in a few days," she sighed softly, "Under any other circumstances I'd want to wait longer, to retrieve his b- him… but I can't, just in case…"

Draco knew what she was trying to say, that time was precious and the future uncertain. That funerals couldn't be delayed these days because no one knew what was on the horizon. That the war could intensify at any day. That no one could know when it would be too late.

"I understand," he murmured, reaching his finger to run over the whorl.

Andromeda sighed again, raising her mug to her lips then setting it back down quickly. She muttered a warming charm to reheat the tea before trying again, "Tell me about Cissy, Draco," she said suddenly, "Tell me what she's like."

He tensed. "Mother…"

He didn't want to talk about his mother; he was struggling not to think about her. He'd just spent the whole night battling the nightmares that had followed his fretting as he'd fallen asleep. The mention of her name sent all kinds of emotions flying into him – nostalgia, protectiveness, sorrow, irritation at his aunt's insistence on using that nickname for her younger sister, frustration for being sent him here, and dread because that she had left herself behind. But he would indulge Andromeda, if only to placate his own guilt, his own sense of indirect responsibility.

He took a hesitant breath, "She's attentive, she is kind, she is thoughtful. My mother… is the strongest person that I know. She's the only one who'll dare stand up to Bellatrix, who'll try to protect us" he noticed his aunt's face darken at the mention of the eldest Black sister, "She… she loves to garden, and she loves… planning great elaborate parties and she…" he could feel the tears stinging his own eyes now, "She…"

Andromeda blinked in surprise, "I'm sorry, Draco," she murmured, reaching for his hand, which he promptly shifted away, "It was selfish of me to ask. Idiotic. Of course you don't want to speak about this to me."

"I'm just – I don't want to wonder about what's happened to her, I want to _know_!" he exclaimed, angry tears making their way down his cheeks.

"I understand."

"You don't! How could you?"

"How could I?" she repeated; her voice had changed now, tightened, and it stilled him at once, "How could I possibly know? Draco, my _husband_ had to leave me, and I have sat here for months, _months_ , wondering each day whether I'd be hearing his name listed on Potterwatch. I spent months _wondering_ and not knowing. So don't you dare tell me that I couldn't possibly understand what you're going through."

Draco bowed his head, ashamed as he remembered that he was talking to a grieving woman, "I didn't think," he whispered, pulling his emotions back into himself, tying them down and hiding them away, the way that they were supposed to be.

"No, you didn't," her voice was calmer now, "But you need to remember, Draco, that this war touches everyone. My husband may not have meant much to you – I know to you he was just another _Mudblood,_ " his eyes flew up to her penetrating gaze at the word, "But he was something to _us_ , he was loved – by _us_. He was a _person_ and a damn good wizard who didn't deserve to die, regardless of who his parents were."

He nodded awkwardly, fixing his attention on the whorl again.

"Mum?" Tonks entered the kitchen sleepily, peering at them in concern. Her hair was rumpled and still that same shade of mousy brown, most likely her normal hair colour. She was still in her pyjamas, making her appear about the same age as Draco, rather than seven years older.

"Hello my love," Andromeda smiled, "Kettle's boiled."

"Thanks," she approached the two of them and wrapped her arms around her mother, pecking her lightly on the cheek, then peered curiously at Draco, "What's going on?"

"Nothing," Andromeda said softly, her eyes also fixed on him, "Nothing."

* * *

The funeral occurred in the backyard two days later. Draco didn't know how they'd managed to spread the word, but obviously the Order had its ways. Andromeda had suggested that he stay in his room until the guests had left, and he was happy to comply - in fact, he'd been planning to suggest a similar idea himself. He wasn't a part of the Order, wasn't an ally. He wouldn't be welcomed at Ted Tonks's funeral; his presence would only cause unnecessary trouble. So he'd stayed in his room with the curtains drawn, reading the books that he'd borrowed from Tonks. However, at one point, he had drifted to the window and peered through the curtains into the yard. There had been a small crowd standing out in the cold January air – he supposed that it was hardly easy or safe to make the journey. He recognised some of the people there – Professor McGonagall, some of the Weasleys, Lupin, Dean Thomas, Luna. But the trio wasn't there. Potter wasn't there.

He thought about Potter a lot. Hell, he'd always thought about Potter a lot, but these days his thoughts drifted down a different route. Before, he was always fuming about the Gryffindor, scheming ways to make the prat question his own sense of superiority, to make him and his friends sorry for ever crossing him, to make them realise their own inadequacies. And perhaps, before he'd been Marked, before he'd been given the job of killing Dumbledore – something much more important than a schoolboy feud – his resentment, hatred and – he was loath to admit it – jealousy of Potter had bordered on obsession. He had denied it at the time, but he could almost admit it now. Once, when the rest of their dorm-mates had all been absent, Blaise had interrupted him mid Potter-rant. The boy had turned to him and fixed his intense gaze upon him, softly warning Draco not to get carried away. Of course, Draco had coldly informed Blaise that he hardly knew what he was talking about, and the conversation had stopped, but the other boy had continued to eye him afterwards, unconvinced.

Now, however, Draco kept seeing that apologetic glance over the shoulder that he wasn't even sure had been real. If it had been real, then why had he looked like that? What had caused Potter to look at _him_ like that? What had he seen in Draco that day? Draco hadn't done anything for him, not really. The clue he had given them had obviously been heeded, but he'd never stated the information explicitly. If not for Granger and that indefatigable brain of hers, there was a chance that they'd still be in the cellar.

But Potter had made it out of the manor alive in the end, and he was glad of that. It had taken him some time to know it for sure, what with all the conflicting thoughts circulating in his brain, but he'd had the time to ponder. He knew that no matter his own thoughts on blood superiority, he could hardly support a future spent on his knees before the Dark Lord. Malfoys were not supposed to kneel.

Furthermore, what benefit did he gain from serving a lord who seemed to prioritise his own immortality and fixation with killing Potter above all else? Protection, in exchange for blind loyalty and submission, exhibited by committing any and all atrocities one was assigned. Glory, if he pleased his lord sufficiently, and if the war was won and he happened to survive. Power, but always carefully constrained.

Potter being alive meant that the future – and _his_ fate, in particular – wasn't set, and that was good. However, that wasn't quite the same as supporting Potter and that Order of his, of being _on side_ with the Light, was it? And he could hardly claim to be a neutral party either, not after all that had happened.

Yes, many things were less clear to him, and staying at Almach Cottage was hardly helping to untangle his thoughts. In fact, it was almost as if new ribbons of information were tying themselves into the immeasurable labyrinth in his mind.

Thomas had spent the night at Andromeda's after the funeral, occupying a room at the far end of the hall that Draco had yet to enter. Careful not to be seen by the other boy, he only left his room late that night, after the others had all retired to bed. He didn't linger long in the kitchen, only long enough to grab a plate of leftovers and some tea. By the time Draco got up the next morning, the Gryffindor boy was gone.

He had eventually managed to speak to Andromeda about her husband, after he had grown tired of his own internal speculations. The conversation between them had been uncomfortable, to say the least, but from it, he'd garnered the woman's understanding that Draco had never met Ted Tonks, let alone played a role in his murder. However, it had also been acknowledged that he was hardly an innocent – he was Marked, after all.

At the end of the conversation, Andromeda had fixed him with a steady eye and said, "Your mother loves you deeply. No matter what has separated us over the years, she is my family, and with that, so are you. You have my protection for as long as I can offer it. I only hope that there is something in you that is worth saving, Draco."

Tonks stayed with them for another two days. He found himself somewhat jumpy around his cousin, whose feelings toward him he had found difficult to decipher. On the second afternoon, she entered his room, the purpose of her visit evident straight away. Draco, who was lying on his bed, closed the book he was reading and eyed his cousin levelly as she sank into the chair facing him. Her movements were slow and unhurried as she crossed one leg over the other, then tucked a stray section of hair behind her ear. It had remained the same mousy colour ever since the news of her father's death had been announced. Draco watched her silently, waiting for her to speak.

"I'll be leaving tomorrow," she started, "But before I do, I think it's important that we talk."

"Alright," Draco exhaled and pushed himself up into a seated position, "Well, I hardly need to guess what you wish to talk about."

Tonks acknowledged that statement with a quick smile that didn't meet her eyes, "With all that's happened since you've arrived, there hasn't really been much opportunity to pick up our conversation from that first day." Her tone was clipped, professional; she was in 'Auror Tonks' mode.

Draco nodded and allowed her to proceed.

"We still don't know the precise details of what happened to my father," she continued, and then her voice grew detached and clinical as she stared at a spot on the wall just past his shoulder. "His body was finally retrieved – I was called to examine it in the early hours of this morning; mother has not seen it. It is evident that he died in combat, as did his companions – another human and a goblin – however, the identity of the culprit - or most likely, _culprits_ – are indistinguishable. There was one survivor, but the information that they were able to give us was… incomplete," her voice softened slightly, "He will be brought back this evening and my mother and I will do the burning in private; the funeral has already happened, after all."

Draco continued to remain silent, watching as her eyes, which were currently cold and silver like his own, moved to fix on him.

"I understand that there is likely little additional information that you can contribute towards this case; my father did not die within the proximity of Wiltshire or Hogwarts. Many of the deaths in this war will remain a mystery. However, in regard to these particular circumstances, we have determined with near certainty that you played no direct role."

"I see." While somewhat reassured by this final statement, Draco remained uncomfortable; it was eerie to be spoken to by his cousin in this state, even if he barely knew her.

"Perhaps it surprises you that you're still here," she commented.

Draco shrugged, "To an extent," he supplied.

"The role of an Auror involves keeping one's job separate from any outside interference. That includes factors such as one's political views, familial bonds, blood status… you get the idea, I'm sure. We must exercise consistency and remain professional in all our dealings, rather than letting our personal biases get in the way," correctly interpreting his sneer, she added, "That isn't to say that all Aurors perform their jobs properly."

Draco withheld a snort. That was an understatement.

"You are not here as a prisoner of the Ministry, but I – and the other Aurors within the Order – intend to treat your situation in the same manner."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you won't be treated as a punching bag simply because you are in our reach," she told him dryly.

"Well that's nice to know," he answered sardonically.

Tonks quirked an amused eyebrow in response but quickly resumed her composed Auror demeanour. "You've made it clear that you were sent here against your will, and I know that you are a Marked member of He Who Shall Not Be Named's inner circle. What remains to be clear, however, is the extent of your loyalty to his cause. According to witness accounts-" he frowned in confusion; witness accounts? "- you lowered your wand on the night Dumbledore was killed, and Severus Snape did the 'honours' in your place. I'm sure that such a move disappointed your master greatly."

Draco prickled at the word 'master'. But of course, that was what the Dark Lord was; there could be no skirting around it. What Draco had once thought would be an honour felt more like slavery now. So much of what had been instilled into him during his upbringing contradicted his family's true circumstances. Malfoys were not supposed to have masters.

Tonks appeared to be waiting for a response. "He was disappointed that I failed to kill Dumbledore personally," he murmured.

"You received punishment, I presume?"

"Yes," he replied stiffly, "Though it was not as severe as I had expected."

"Oh?"

"He was going to kill me if I failed… my parents too, I believe."

Tonks nodded in thought, "You have had reasonable cause to resent your master. Your father's arrest following the Battle of the Department of Mysteries would have greatly affected his standing; there is no doubt. But you could not kill Dumbledore, therefore, you could not redeem your family's name in the eyes of your lord. The Malfoys have certainly fallen far in recent times."

Draco glared at her. Though her words could be interpreted as mocking, Tonks didn't gloat or smirk; she merely gazed at him impassively.

"The other day you said that you haven't defected," she recalled, "So what does that mean, Draco? Do you think that if you continue to serve You Know Who, you'll have a chance at redeeming the Malfoy name? Or is there another reason? Have I been wrong all along? Do you truly support his vision wholeheartedly?"

"I am loyal to my family," he gritted out.

She tilted her head, "And in turn, your family are loyal to the Dark Lord," Tonks surmised, "So no matter how you feel about his cause personally, you will do what you must. I suspected as much. In war, we are expected to be ruthless… but Draco, the Order would not expect you to betray your family."

He didn't believe that was entirely true, but he left his opinion unvoiced. It didn't particularly matter to him what the Order did and did not expect.

"Not defected," she said again, "But not a mindless follower either, that's for certain. It would be a shame for Azkaban to claim your life at such a young age…"

Tonks let the threat hang in the air as she rose to her feet, and Draco watched as she made her way to the door.

Before she stepped out, she made one final comment, "Don't let your father's mistakes destroy your own life."

That night, Draco stood at his window and watched as Tonks and Andromeda stood before Ted Tonks' carefully wrapped body, holding each other for support as he was devoured by flames.

They did not speak again for the remainder of her stay.

* * *

On the third day after the funeral, Tonks returned to wherever it was that she'd come from, promising to come back when she could. Perhaps she was on a mission – she hadn't specified, at least not to him; Draco wasn't trusted enough to be told these things, anyway. Without her, the house was a lot quieter, and at first it unnerved him, but eventually he grew more used to it.

After the funeral was over and his cousin had left, Draco settled into the routine of the house. In the mornings, he would rise to find Andromeda in the kitchen already, preparing breakfast or sitting at the table sipping at her coffee. It didn't seem to matter how early he rose; she always seemed to beat him. Maybe she'd always been a light sleeper, or perhaps it was worse now that she was widowed; the dark circles lingered under her eyes, rendering her permanently weary. Once or twice, he'd offered to brew her some Dreamless Sleep, but she'd waved off the gesture with a small smile and a firm shake of the head. Despite his early endeavours to remain detached yet civil, he found himself growing to like the woman and felt genuine sympathy for her situation.

After breakfast, they'd set out into the garden and tend to the myriad of plants, weeding, trimming and harvesting what was ripe. Draco had always enjoyed Herbology, particularly its connection to potioneering, and the methodical work was soothing. It also reminded him of the times that he had spent in the gardens at Malfoy Manor with his parents as they cultivated their own plants, when life had seemed so much simpler. In addition to magical plants, Andromeda had also planted a fair share of herbs and vegetables for cooking purposes. His aunt would chat as she worked, hardly seeming to mind that he only punctured her dialogue with the occasional comment. It surprised him to find that he enjoyed listening to the woman, who talked quite a lot, seemingly unnerved by the mostly one-way conversation. She seemed to do so with a natural ease rather than a wish to fill the silences. Although his family had had many acquaintances, apart from Severus, he'd never really spent much time on his own with an adult of his parents' age.

Once the garden had been taken care of, they would enter the shed, which looked unsuspecting from the outside but, due to wizardspace, was much larger on the inside, having been transformed into a well-equipped potions laboratory. There, they would alternate between preparing and preserving what they'd picked from the garden, and brewing. Andromeda was true to her word; the potions and salves that they made were restorative in nature, so Draco worked amicably alongside her, preparing bruise removal paste, Blood-Replenishing Potion, Draught of Peace, Pepperup Potion, Skele-Gro and more. Eventually, they'd return back to the house for lunch. Most of the time, Draco would spend the afternoon alone, reading Tonks' books. He mostly read in his own room, but also sometimes in her own, nestled in her mountain of cushions and dragons, though he'd never admit that to her. He also started to explore her music collection; Tonks had informed him that the rectangular plastic cases held items called 'cassette tapes', and had lent him her a contraption that she called a 'Walkman', and shown him how to use it to play the music. Although he'd initially been reviled by the idea of learning to use something so quintessentially Muggle, his own boredom and sheer curiosity had won out in the end. To his surprise, he'd become quite partial to The Smiths.

The Tonks household was so unlike the one that he'd grown up in. It always seemed so much warmer, so much more _alive_ than the stark Malfoy Manor. Andromeda was so similar to his mother, yet so different. At times, the woman struck him as the most un-Slytherin Slytherin that he'd ever met, though he wondered whether that was a tactic in itself. No matter whether his aunt had such intentions, the contrast between the two sisters was clear. Narcissa was poised, elegant, her clothing clean and crisp and not a hair out of place. Andromeda shared her sister's good looks, but was more content to throw her hair up in a loose bun than a French twist, and more often than not had a dirt smudge or two on her cheeks from wiping her face while gardening. While Narcissa was aloof and composed, Andromeda wore her emotions on her sleeve, something that Draco was slowly but steadily getting used to. He'd been trained all his life to wear a mask, to hide his emotions and his intent, and he knew that this unsettled the Tonks women, who were used to being so open. It confused Tonks, most likely because her childhood had been so unlike his, while it likely reminded Andromeda of her own upbringing and the demands that had been set upon her.

* * *

One morning in mid-January, after Draco had been in Andromeda's care for a few weeks, they were in the garden picking nettles to use for the Boil-Cure Potion that they were planning on brewing.

"So," said Andromeda, starting up discussion first, as she always did, "Who are the other Slytherins in your year? You've mentioned a few names, but not all of them, I don't think."

By now, Draco wasn't unnerved by her attempts to engage him in conversation. He rattled them off, "Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, Vincent Crabbe and Greg Goyle share... shared my dorm. And then Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass, Tracey Davis and Millicent Bulstrode are the seventh year girls."

"Hmm," Andromeda mused, nodding to herself, "A lot of pure-bloods in that list. I think I know most of their parents, or know of them anyway. Of course, it's been years since I've really talked to them. We grew up in… similar circles, as you'd know."

"Of course."

"Where are they now?" she asked, "All still at Hogwarts?"

Draco stiffened, his hands pausing in their movement as he wondered that himself.

"I'm… not sure," he admitted slowly, cautiously.

Of all of them, he was the only one who had been Marked, unless things had changed since the Christmas break. It wasn't usual for a student - particularly one who wasn't yet of age - to receive the Mark, after all. He knew that Vincent and Greg lusted after a place in the Dark Lord's inner circle, and so carried out what menial jobs they were afforded, unquestioning as always. He was less certain about the others.

Even though Blaise was probably the person that he considered to be his closest friend, they hadn't spoken much since sixth year. Draco had been trying to avoid being alone with him since he had received his mission from the Dark Lord, but he was sure that Blaise had known he was up to something, had noticed the change in him. He doubted that Blaise would have taken the Mark; he'd always tried to keep his hands clean when it came to those types of affairs, just as his mother did. In the first war, the Zabini family's alliances had been blatantly neutral.

Draco had always been close with Pansy, and things had become intimate between them shortly after they became Prefects in fifth year. Together, they had taken full advantage of their new bathroom privileges, fumbling and experimenting at first, then developing their sexual finesse. In the end, it had just been sex; they'd both realised that they held no romantic feelings for each other. However, they'd both admitted that if they were arranged to marry - something which occurred quite often in pure-blood circles - the match would be perfectly tolerable

Draco had known Theo well as a child, but they'd grown more distant as they'd aged, Lucius pressuring him to diminish his ties with the boy. Nott Sr. was a Death Eater just like Vincent and Greg's fathers, but, just like them and his own father, had managed to avoid conviction after the first war. Regardless, his reputation in the greater wizarding community was highly unfavourable, and Lucius did not want the Malfoy image to be tarnished by him. Distancing himself from Theo had been difficult for Draco; the boy had been a good friend to him. Due to this, he knew of the other boy's anguish well; his mother had died giving birth to him, and he'd never been forgiven by his father. Draco had also been born into a strict family with high ambitions, but the difference between him and Theo was that Draco at least had always been loved. Comparatively, Theo's upbringing had been troubled, and he knew that Nott Sr. was a violent man who easily angered. He'd never witnessed him inflict any damage upon Theo, but he had seen the aftermath... at least, until other the boy had learned to better cover it.

He was even less certain about the other three girls – Daphne, Millicent and Tracey. Although he got along with them well enough, they were more acquaintances than friends. In the past, he'd prided himself upon his ability to collect information about other people. His father had always lived by the aphorism _'scientia potestas est',_ and he wholeheartedly agreed. However, over the last year and a half, that had become less of a priority.

"Have they chosen their sides, Draco?" Andromeda's words pulled him from his thoughts.

"Why would I know that?" he snapped, leaning forward to tug out a weed.

Andromeda shrugged, "You're more likely to know than most of the people that I associate with," she paused, seemingly questioning whether to proceed before asking, "Have _you_ chosen a side yet?"

He froze again, though he'd known that this question would come at some point. He wondered how much Tonks had told her mother about the conversation the two had had shortly after the funeral.

"I've been Marked, you know that. You saw the bloody thing yourself."

She sat back on her heels and sighed, "That doesn't answer my question, Draco. Yes, you have the Mark, but your alliances can still change. The symbol on your arm isn't connected to the brain in your head. So, when the final battle comes, what will you choose?"

Draco sat back as well, wiping sweat from his brow. He wasn't ready for this conversation. He wasn't sure if he'd ever be ready for it.

He shrugged, "Well I'm hardly going to fight my parents."

"And what about us? Would you fight us? Would you fight me, Nymphadora… your Hogwarts professors?"

He blinked, realising that if he fought alongside his parents, it would be a strong possibility.

"You will need to make a decision soon, Draco," she warned, "You cannot hesitate much longer."

He sighed, exasperated. "I don't know," he said shortly, "Do I _need_ to pick a side?"

Andromeda shook her head, "No… but you should know better than anyone, actions have consequences. Even if the action is to do nothing at all."

She stood, brushing the dirt off her trousers, then hovered there for a moment, staring down at him as she peeled off her gloves.

"I think that's enough gardening for now," she murmured, "You go and freshen up. I'll make us some lunch."

She left him there, kneeling in the grass, lost.

* * *

That afternoon, Andromeda had received a Floo call in her quarters, presumably from the enigmatic Secret Keeper, though Draco could hardly be sure, as the door was always firmly closed and a silencing spell cast on the room. Shortly afterwards, a visitor had emerged from the room with her, the first to come since Dean Thomas spent the night after Ted's funeral. It was an older male wizard that Draco didn't recognise, tall and burly, his iron grey hair coarse and wavy, with a beard to match. He was clad in the sort of Muggle clothes that seemed to typify the older generation, that is, gaudy and highly mismatching. He wore shiny black cap toe oxfords on his feet, which were fine enough, but he'd deigned to pair them with a pair of orange and yellow striped long johns - no trousers over the top, of course - as well as a frilly white shirt and a long, fluffy magenta cardigan that appeared to have been designed for a woman. Draco had needed to turn away to hide his smirk at the sight of the man, who would have looked rather imposing if he had been clad in wizard garb. He and the rest of his family had at least attempted to appear convincing on the rare occasion where they had been required to emulate Muggles; he didn't think it was _that_ difficult.

The visitor had grunted a greeting at Draco upon his arrival, eyeballing him suspiciously all the while. Draco knew that he bore a glaring resemblance to his father, and had stood there stiffly, awaiting a verbal lashing that never came. In fact, the other man had ignored him over the duration of his stay, taking his meals in his own quarters and sleeping for most of the day. It was the first person that he'd seen face-to-face in weeks, other than his aunt and his cousin – who had only been able to visit them sporadically – and the experience had been disheartening, to say the least. The fact that he suddenly craved the company of others seemed strange to him indeed.

* * *

One rainy evening a week after the bearded wizard had left, Draco was seated in Andromeda's living room, watching what he still referred to in his mind as the 'Muggle Box'. At first, he'd made a point to avoid the television, trying to ignore the sound of it as he sat resolutely in the kitchen with his back turned. But, the same as everything else so far, his curiosity had gotten the better of him. And, the same as everything else so far, he had been pleasantly surprised.

Andromeda had come into the room an hour earlier, informing him that she'd been summoned to Headquarters, and that she'd likely be returning in the late hours of the night. She reminded him that there was leftover lasagne in the fridge for dinner; Draco had become adept at operating the microwave.

Draco was watching an episode of _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ – a series that he had grown addicted to partially because of its hilarious inaccuracies and partially because it gave him a more tolerable glimpse into Muggle culture than most of the other shows he had come across. Halfway through, however, he was interrupted a loud crash sounding from Andromeda's room. Someone had arrived through the Floo, and surely it wasn't his aunt - she'd never been that ungraceful.

Draco quickly crossed the room to the television, flicking it off, then made his way down the hallway as quietly as he could. Perhaps Andromeda had brought a new visitor back with her, but then, he couldn't hear their voices. She hadn't cast a silencing spell on the bedroom this time - he'd heard the crash, after all. An intruder, maybe? Andromeda and Tonks may be adamant that that Almach was protected, but the wards had been breached before, hadn't they? An intruder was unlikely, but not _impossible_.

If there was an intruder, he was useless. He had no wand. He briefly considered grabbing an implement from the kitchen to use as a weapon, but cast that thought aside. There wasn't time, and honestly, how long did he really think he could last before whoever it was disarmed him?

Draco stopped before the door, listening intently. He could hear ragged breathing and footsteps approaching. They were slow, unsteady; perhaps the person had been injured in the crash. If it was an enemy and they were hurt, perhaps he'd be able to wrench their wand away before they could do him damage. There was a chance it could be Andromeda crossing the room to the door, but he didn't want to take the risk of calling out to her.

"Fuck it," he hissed to himself as he grasped the doorknob, waiting until they were close.

He took a deep breath, bracing himself before he wrenched open the door. Then he froze, dropping the arm that he had raised, and simply gaped. Before him stood a teetering Harry Potter, clutching his stomach as he wavered in the doorway, his hands covered in blood.

* * *

'scientia potestas est' = 'knowledge is power'


End file.
